With two days behind and two days ahead, I find myself both exhilarated and exhausted. The conferences have been supremely satisfying, but they have also been decidedly demanding. Conferences are not without cost. Attention must be paid, and attention is…well, exhausting. I am not complaining. It’s a price I willingly pay. But just because one is willing, it does not mean that the effort does not take its toll. And each carries a different cost. No two conferences are the same despite the fact that all kids have prepared in exactly the same way.

Some are short. Some are long. Some are serious. Some are funny. Some cut straight to the point. Some wander and meander along, venturing here, pausing there. Some are awkward and anxious. Some are familiar and comfortable. But all, despite the variances among them, fit each kid, and that requires that I adapt. And while I am readily willing and generally able, adapting to each situation, each kid is no easy task. That, in addition to keeping twenty-some other kids engaged and moving along, leaves me wiped out by day’s end. It leaves me tired, but it’s a good tired.

And so, today we continue. We will continue to come together in an effort to put a mark on learning, a task far from perfect, for learning is hard to definitively put a finger on, but it is a task that, above all, honors the learners inasmuch as they are holding the pen. No one knows better their stories. They just need a chance to tell them. I can do that. I can give them that chance. And so I do, for if I didn’t, I would miss out on much, for their stories are lovely, imperfect, unique, beautiful, real. All I have to do is listen.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will…

…begin with Smiles and Frowns.

…continue conferences.

…have an opportunity to take Sentence Performance (some needed/wanted another chance).

…end with a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

There’s something deeply satisfying, something eternally rewarding about looking kids in the eyes and sharing moments of truth. And that is what yesterday’s select-and-support grading conferences felt like to me. Moments of truth.

We sat across from each other, desk to desk, out in the hall so we could have a “private” conversation (high school hallways are rarely private, but it’s the best I could do). I was perched purposefully where I could keep my right eye and ear on the twenty-some other souls in the classroom as they worked, but I was soon blind and deaf, transfixed by the voice and face in front of me, watching closely and listening intently as I was carried away into each kid’s moment, each kid’s truth. And as I watched and listened, I measured, looking for signs, listening for sounds of authenticity as we merged into the moment, doing our best to capture the essence of the experience we call learning. I shared in twenty-two moments of truth yesterday, each different, each profound in its own sense, in its own right. I have never felt more noble in my profession. Well, noble may not be the precise word, but it is as close as anything I can manage at this early hour.

Of course, I believe that this feeling of nobility exceeds my approach to grading. It, in the end, is simply a mechanism, a tool we use to arrive at a mark. And while that mark will carry the weight of our institution as I place it on the kids’ transcripts, it is merely the cover. It is not the story. Only two people know the true story of each mark. And that truth exists in the moments we shared yesterday, moments during which I believe my kids felt empowered, challenged, connected, supported, valued, respected, and safe. Therein, I believe, lies the story, lies the truth. And that makes me feel proud, that makes me feel noble–if I am allowed such feelings, feelings which I hope are not perceived as arrogance. You see, I, too, was measured yesterday; my “truth” was considered and weighed by each of my kids as they were no doubt anxious to discover if I was going to uphold my end of the deal, if my deeds would match my words, if my walk would match my talk. I met them where and how I said I would; I walked along the path I had been describing all along. I passed the test. And I am proud of that.

Today, I will share in more moments, hear more stories, learn more truths. I can’t wait. Lucky man, I.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will…

…start with Smiles and Frowns.

…continue grading conferences.

…have an opportunity to take an optional theme performance for the end of Night or “Catch the Moon.” Some wanted/needed another opportunity to demonstrate proficiency.

…end with a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Wednesday, all. Man, I love kids.

Do. Reflect. Do Better. 

In a few hours, I am going to venture down a new path, a path that I have thought a lot about, a path that I have prepared for, but a path that I have not traveled before. Fortunately, I will not go it alone. I will have twenty-four young souls along with me–they, too, new to this particular path. Today, we will take a tour along the select-and-support trail. Today, we will begin our grading conferences. Today, I will listen. Today, I will learn. Today, I will live in a world that I have created to make my kids feel empowered, challenged, connected, supported, valued, respected, and safe. For that, today is the test.

Over the weekend, thinking about this “world,” I, on a whim, started a # movement on Twitter, #myroom. Movement may be too strong a word, but I wanted to challenge my Tweeps to think about their own rooms, their own worlds. And so I threw it out there into the Twitterverse, and though the response has been modest, it has gained some ground, and my teacher friends are chiming in. Of course, I felt obligated to jump into the challenge as well, sharing my own list for how I want kids to feel in my room. My goal here, really, is to create both an opportunity for reflection and accountability for myself. Before making public my purpose, I had to reflect deeply on what it is that I really want kids to feel while they experience life and learning with me fifty-five minutes a day. By making public my purpose, I am compelled to hold myself to account, to make sure my walk is matching my talk.

And so, today, I walk. I will walk the path with whom I hope are twenty-four kids who feel empowered. They get to put their finger on their learning. They get to select and support a mark that they believe best reflects their learning journey in my class this semester. And I created that opportunity. I say that not to brag. I say that to advance my notion that we are creators of worlds, for we have the power of choice, and those choices that we make in our rooms become the worlds in which kids dwell, worlds in which they shine, or worlds in which they suffer. And that is the responsibility that comes with our choices. We wield a great and terrible power, a power that is brought to bear every moment of every day in our classrooms. And that is why I believe it is vital that we continuously reflect on our choices in light of the simple question, “How do I want kids to feel in my classroom?” My own reflections, thus, cast light on both my successes and my failures. Kids shine in my class. But kids suffer, too. And , for that, all that I can do is do my best to do better. Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Today, I do. It will not be perfect. I will need to no doubt make changes. But it will be real–a mix of wins and fails. And as I reflect on the twenty-four conversations today, and the hundred-some to follow, I will find ways to get better. In these moments, I want my kids to feel empowered. But that does not mean I simply acquiesce to their selections. Power is not merely measured in freedom. Power is truly measured against resistance. As I wrote last week in my Do I Like My Kids Too Much post, I have to check my feelings a bit for I am vulnerable to them, and I have to provide the necessary “professional resistance” so that we arrive at a place of meaning. Today, that is our path. And to be honest, I am nearly giddy with anticipation. I know–though there will be some disappointment–that the kids are going to blow me away today. They will shine, and I will bask proudly in their light. I am inclined to record a few, but I always worry that the camera will diminish the authenticity I seek. We’ll see. Either way, it’s going to be thrilling. Never have I been excited for “grading.” Never.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will…

…begin with Smiles and Frowns.

…conduct grading conferences (goal is 6 per period, 5-7 minutes)

…have work options (table talks, finish Night, Passion Papers)

…end with a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Tuesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

“In the end we have to come to an agreement. If it so happens that I disagree with your selection and support of your grade, it does not mean that the conversation is over. I am not seeking to broker the power of my position in a way that subjugates the power I have given you as a partner in determining what grade best reflects your learning in my class this semester. I am not going to have sold you the idea of select and support all along only to withdraw it at the end. If I disagree, it simply means that you may have to come at it from a different angle. The conversation is over only after we arrive at a place in which we are both comfortable. More, if I disagree, please know that it is coming from my feeling that I have a professional responsibility to make sure that the grade and evidence you provide as support match up. It is not personal. I would hope by now that you all know that I like and care about each of you. In fact, I probably like you too much, and if I am not careful that factor could cloud my professional judgment. It is my earnest goal to agree with you. That is my desired default, but in the event that I find myself unable to accept your grade selection, I will steer from that desire and fulfill my professional obligation. Have to, kiddos.”

I shared various versions of this with each of my classes yesterday, but this captures the gist of my sentiments as I discussed the end game with my kids. Upon reflection this morning, I am struck by and stuck with the wonder–worry–of whether my relationships with my kids have led me to a place that clouds my judgment, that affects my objectivity. Do I like my kids too much? Am I able, will I be able to set aside this fondness, this affection, this adoration as we enter into our grade negotiations? My mind says that I am, that I will be able to hold the line when necessary, and I really do believe that, for my kids’ learning truly does matter to me as much as their persons, but my heart sends signals that give me pause, that cause me doubt. But the disconnect between heart and head is a familiar face, a comfortable countenance as I gaze into my mirror, as I reflect upon my person and my practice. In the end, I suppose I will just have to trust that whatever I do, I will do with my kids’ best interests in my mind—and in my heart. I will do right by them in the best way I can. Care about them too much? Like them too much? Maybe. Possibly. Okay, undeniably. Sorry. It’s who I am.

Today’s Trail

We have a two-hour late start today, so the trail is significantly shorter, especially since we have an hour-long pep-con at the end of the day. 25 minute periods. Ugh.

Along today’s trail we will…

…begin with Smiles and Frowns.

…have time to organize portfolios and prepare for conferences on Tuesday.

…end with a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Friday, all. Have a great weekend.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

It began with a simple question. “What is learning?” It continued as a period-long discussion about grading. I didn’t intend for it to take the entire hour, but the hands never stopped going up and the kids never quit talking. There was momentum in our moment, and I would have been a fool to stop it. So, I let the kids talk; I let the kids speak their truths. And why wouldn’t I? After all, it was their learning, their grades that we were talking about. Why I wouldn’t I let them speak? Why wouldn’t I listen?

They had two minutes to answer the what-is-learning question in their Journey Journals, and then I asked them to share near and far. Basically, the kids share with someone sitting close to them (near), and then they get up and share with someone not sitting close to them (far). It’s something I do to ensure that they are hearing different views. When all kids have returned to their seats, I then ask them what they heard. This is another thing that I do to ensure that kids are actually listening. After sharing, first, what they heard, I then let them add what they shared.

In general, most of their answers were predictable, “acquiring knowledge,” “learning from mistakes,” “having experiences,” etc. But some of their answers revealed other, less-predictable responses, “learning is living,” “it’s not memorizing something for a test,” “it’s different for each person,” “it’s not limited to school.” At the end, though we could identify some aspects of what learning is, we agreed that there was no one, simple answer. It’s complicated. Indeed.

I then asked them about the purpose of grades. Here, too, they offered some pat responses, ranging from “show what we learned” to “motivate us.” Amelia, offered, “to stress us out,” which was verified with a chorus of “uh-huh’s” and “knowing nods,” but that’s a post for another day. I want to share a different story.

Somewhere in the midst of our discussing “grades as motivation” in second period, Alyssa jumped onto the stage and shared a stirring sentiment, a simple truth full of wisdom. And I will share it in a moment, but first some context.

Alyssa is that kiddo who “bubbles.” She gushes enthusiasm and energy, and though she did not literally jump on the stage, when she speaks, it’s as if–always, as if. Beyond her animated gestures, she speaks in dashes, inserting stream-of-consciousness commentary whenever she shares, creating an engaging but dizzying experience for her audience. Earlier, during Smiles and Frowns at the beginning of the period, she had put on a one-girl, one-act play about her bad hair day, entertaining us, all her adoring fans. And whether she was inspired by our earlier appreciation of her performance or it just popped into her head (as things do), Alyssa decided to give us an encore. It was in regards to the role/impact of grades.

“Okay (purposeful pause), this is probably gonna sound stupid (we nodded and smiled in anticipation, remembering the bad-hair-day performance), but…”

“You know that scene in Wonder Woman where the guy puts on his watch and she asks him it is, and he tells her it’s a watch, that it tells time, that it tells him when to do things. And she replies. ‘So you let that little thing control you and what you do?'”

“Just like a watch, we let our grades define us and tell us what we can and can’t do, and when we can and can’t do them. We give such a little thing so much value when it really doesn’t have much at all. Sometimes, we need our grades, just like we need that watch. But sometimes we need to just put it under our sleeve and live in the moment.”

Encore, indeed. After a brief applause, I immediately asked Alyssa to capture what she had just said in her Journey Journal, for I knew I would want to share it this morning. And that’s how my day went yesterday. No, no one quite stole the show as our own little resident Wonder Woman, Alyssa, but all day long, kids moved me with their voices, their truths, their wisdom, a symphony for which I had the best seat in the house.

Today, we will finish the conversation, a conversation in which I, too, revealed a truth. Near the end, I asked kids to ask me what learning was. I humbly offered, “I am not sure.” But, I told them, I want to know. I want to know, so that when we come to the institutional intersections such as these (end of semester grades), I can do a better job of putting my finger on learning.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will…

…begin with Smiles and Frowns.

…finish grading conversation.

…begin our last “table talk” for the end of Night.

…reflect in our Journey Journals.

…end with a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Thursday, all. May you have some moments to hide your watch and just live today.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

It’s that time. Time for grades. Time for us to try to put a finger on learning. Of course, on some level, I believe to truly do that for each kid is beyond any imaginable grading approach. Learning does not readily fit into a cell on a spreadsheet. But the system says we must, so we will comply. But we will comply in our own way. We will push the edges and stretch the boundaries in a manner that best fits our classroom culture. As such, we do not claim to have discovered the best way to grade kids. To be sure, we have only discovered the best way to grade our kids. A best that is simply in wait of a “next better.”

That said, I am not sharing our policies as a “replicate-this-and-you-too-will-have-a-more-effective-grading-policy.” I am sharing our policies to encourage others to push the boundaries within their own systems, to find a way that best fits them and their kids, especially–especially–those who, too, are unsettled and dissatisfied with traditional grading practices. But, I believe there’s room here, also, for those who are already in the gradeless realm. As many of us know, there exists neither one nor “right” way to be gradeless. I have discovered as I have made contact with numerous others here in the gradeless realm that there are many varieties of gradelessness. And though I think some come here to be handed “the way,” they will not find it. But what they will find are several who have sought better ways to put their own fingers on what learning is in their own classroom cultures, several who are willing to share their practices and policies to help swing the pendulum away from toxic, traditional grading practices. And that is why I am sharing this today. I am simply sharing our latest attempt to create and utilize a grading policy that ensures a more healthy practice within the culture of our classrooms.

Thank you Jenna Tamura and Madeline Alderete for doing the hard, constant work with me to find our way, to find our next better. Couldn’t do it without you.

Below is what we will share with our kids today as we prepare for our grading conferences next week. I will share more specifics in the coming days.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will…

...begin with Smiles and Frowns.

…discuss and begin preparing for grading conferences.

…reflect in our Journey Journals.

…end with a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Wednesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

I have to do something today, something that I should have done weeks ago. But whether it was adhering to my principles around student ownership and responsibility or just simply negligence, at this point, it is what it is, and I have to do something about it.

At the end of second period on Friday, after watching him sit there and do nothing yet again, I held Jack (name changed) after class.

“Jack, you gotta help me, man. I gotta understand, so we can get better. I am going to write you a letter this weekend, and I would like you to respond. Okay?”

“Okay, Sy.”

“Have a good weekend, kiddo. See you Monday.”

Dear Jack,

I want to begin by saying that it has been a pleasure getting to know you this year. Every day I look forward to your wise and witty words during Smiles and Frowns. Your peers and I never exactly know what’s going to come out of your mouth, and that’s what makes you…well, Jack. You are truly a unique and valued member of our community. Thank you for brightening our days. And while all that is important and my sentiments are sincere, it is not why I am writing you this letter.

I am writing out of concern. I am writing out of a need to know. As we are both aware, the end of the semester is upon us, and as we are both aware, you are in danger of not earning credit for the course. And this troubles me. Greatly. I lose sleep over it. I want to understand. How is it that such a bright young man finds himself in this position? Is it me? Have I not pushed hard enough? Did I give you too much ownership? Is there something beyond school? Or is school the problem? I want to understand. And so, I would like to make you a deal.

I want you to write me back. I want you to help me better understand the Jack I don’t know. Help me better understand you, so I can better serve you. If you do this, I will accept it as your narrative essay, which moves you closer to earning credit. I want you to earn credit. Of course, there’s more to it than just your letter, but it’s not too late for us to get across that line. But more than the credit, we have another half year together, and I want it to be better than the first. I feel like I can do a better job if I better understand how to motivate and help you. Please consider my offer. I look forward to your response.

~Sy

Over the years, I have had numerous Jacks–and Jills–who have confused and confounded me in such ways. Bright kids who are reluctant to shine. And over the years, I have dealt with such instances differently. Before I knew better, I failed them to teach them a lesson. As I’ve learned, I have tried to meet them in the middle with flexibility and opportunity. And I am now doing that for Jack, but I want to do more than be flexible. I want be more knowledgeable. I want to understand. Even more, I want Jack to know that I want to understand. I want him to know that he’s worth understanding.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will…

…begin with Smiles and Frowns.

…work on Passion Papers.

…reflect in Journey Journals.

…end with a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Monday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

“I’m not mad. You are not in trouble. My goal is not to make you feel bad or guilty. My goal is simply to acknowledge the reality that you are not reading Night and to offer you an alternative. Promise. It’s all good.”

This is the gist of a conversation that I had with a total of 10 kids yesterday from all four of my LA10 Honors classes. Of my 112 kids from these classes, I have 10 who have decided not to read Night. In my post, Big Kids, Big Choices, I made clear that in this they would have a choice, and I will honor that choice; I will walk that walk. Of course I am disappointed. I absolutely want every kid to read Night, but my twenty-two years in the classroom have taught me that this is a rare reality. So, in this, my goal is to live the real reality. Some kids won’t read the books we put in front of them–no matter what we do. I have come to accept this, but my acceptance does not end in apathy; it leads to alternatives.

Yesterday, my kids had three options.

Option 1: If you have read chapters 4-6, you will participate with your peers in the “Table Talk” activity to prepare for tomorrow’s performance.

Option 2: If you have not finished chapters 4-6, you will have time to read to prepare for tomorrow’s performance.

Option 3: If you are not reading Night, you will read Doris Lessing’s short story “Through the Tunnel” to prepare for tomorrow’s performance.

Of course, not all options are created equally. The kids who participated in Option 1 will likely be the best prepared for today’s performance. Their choices to read will benefit them as they were able to dig into the text with their peers in the “Table Talk.” But their “reward” was not intended to be punishment for those who were not ready. Still, in truth, those who did not read did, indeed, missed an opportunity, and this is at the core of my approach in the 180 classroom. I provide opportunities and kids make choices. And while they cannot get back that opportunity, all is not lost. I did not design the performance to “catch” kids. I designed the performance to give kids a fair shot at demonstrating proficiency with our standards, regardless their choices. I believe I have to give every kid an opportunity to demonstrate learning, even if that means providing an opportunity outside the boundaries of the planned unit. The kids who are not reading Night are missing out on many opportunities, and it is my sincere hope that as we continue our journey, they more carefully consider their choices, choosing to seize those opportunities rather than letting them get away. Opportunities. Choices.

In the past, I would not have approached it in this manner. I would have stayed the course. The kids who were prepared would be rewarded. The kids who were not would be punished. But I am no longer that teacher. I am no longer making decisions on the basis of reward and punishment. I am different. I am no longer interested in the convention of compliance. I am instead deeply intrigued by the promise of commitment. But that is a different place, a different land, so I have to, then, do things differently. And different is…well, different. I do not have it all figured out. Mistakes and fails are constant companions, but I find them better company than “it’s how we’ve always done it.” I am not convinced that the commitment I seek for my kids lives in the context of convention. So I try to find unconventional ways of doing things. My kids who are not reading Night will take a similar performance to the kids who are. No, this is not ideal. But it is real. And just as I ask my big kids to make big choices, I, too, make big choices. I could choose to punish them, or I could choose to make the most of the situation and provide an opportunity. Really, it’s a pretty easy choice.

Here is the “Table Talk” activity from yesterday

Here is the performance the kids will take today.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will…

...begin with Smiles and Frowns.

…take the performance.

…end with a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Friday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

What is something that you struggled with on this piece of writing? Be specific.

“I got it done. I started over a lot. I couldn’t find the words for the experience, but I stuck with it, and they eventually came together. I’m sorry that it took so long.”

Maggie finally turned her narrative essay in. It was nearly six weeks late. I knew it was late. She knew it was late. I pushed occasionally. She responded gradually. And she finished eventually. I knew she would. I trusted her. I gave her room. And she grew within that space. No, she did not meet the deadline, not even close. But she did accomplish the required task. She did meet the given standards. But she did it within a time frame that allowed her to do her best. And as the guard at the gate of deadlines in room 211, I could grant her the time and space necessary. Time was, I would not have granted such freedom. Time was, I would have given her a zero until she turned it in, mercifully granting her half credit, teaching her about the importance of meeting deadlines. Time was…

That time has passed. I no longer penalize kids for late work, even really late work. More, I now better understand that learning happens in different ways and at different paces. Even more, I now better understand that true responsibility comes from commitment, not compliance. Maggie did not miss the deadline out of laziness. Maggie missed the deadline because she had not finished creating. Creativity cannot be canned. It doesn’t always fit neatly into the packages we prescribe. It happens outside the lines. It happens in the margins. It happens in ways we don’t readily imagine. But. If we give our kids, time and freedom to exist and explore beyond the borders, it can happen.

In my compliance-classroom of old, I may have had more marks in the grade book at the time of the due date, but I am not sure that those marks were indicative of more or better learning. Yes, there’s some inconvenience that comes with such flexibility, but that is a small price to pay for kids who need the time and space outside my convenience. I gave Mag that space. And she took advantage of it. She took advantage of my flexibility. Some would suggest that if we give an them inch, they will take a mile. In this case, that’s exactly what Maggie did. And I could not be more proud of her. She obviously needed more than an inch. Below is the beginning of her essay that took a few extra miles.

The bus shook as it rattled down the dirt roads of Saint John, Washington. One young boy screamed and fought his seat belt, trying to avoid going to school. This happened every day. He was a cry baby who needed to grow up. I wasn’t the only one who thought this, who rolled their eyes and sighed as he kicked and screamed onto the bus every morning. He was a pain.

The days went on, the screams got louder, and our sighs of annoyance grew deeper. Looking back I don’t look down on my or my fellow bus mates’ reactions to this young boy, it is human nature to assume everyone can control their actions and emotions. As the year went on my curiosity grew about the boy. I needed to know more about why he acted the way he did. I grabbed my backpack lying on the seat next to me and made my way down the aisle to the only seat with straps.

My feet shook as I took the risk of meeting the boy. I sat down in the adjacent seat. It was at that moment that I spoke the most powerful “hello” of my life.

He was quiet, not very comfortable talking to me. But I began, day by day, breaking down the barriers, digging deeper into a relationship with the boy strapped into the seats on the bus. At first it was just a shy “hi Moggie” and then a quick snap of his head to avoid more eye contact with with me. However, that changed.

As days went by he opened up to me. I saw a spark in his eyes, and I could feel one in mine. He began sharing his day with me. I helped him with his homework. We mastered the ABC’s. We became friends…

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will…

…begin with Smiles and Frowns.

…discuss chapters 4-6 in Night.

…reflect in our Journey Journals.

…end with a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.