Long ago, I promised myself that if I completed 25 years of teaching, I would try to write a book about my experiences. Next year will be year 25. So I started this last year to begin to figure out what I wanted to write about. I welcome your comments, resources, links to your own teaching blog, book recommendations, etc.
Earlier in the year, without ever having met or talked with me, without ever trying to email me, you wrote the Principal complaining, I was told, about something that had happened in class. I got an overview of the email from the Principal, but never saw it for myself. Based on what I learned, I followed up with the student who, shortly thereafter, was satisfied with how I’d addressed the matter.
This past weekend, your child was part of a special opportunity that I’d arranged for her and other students. Unlike the other students, she was recognized for her work and seemed very excited about the honor and opportunity. Yes, you said thank you to me at the event, but why didn’t you write to the Principal then?
See, it’s easy to complain. But why, when the initial issue was resolved, why didn’t the Principal hear from you? Why didn’t I? And why, after I’d gone above and beyond for your daughter, well, why didn’t you write to the Principal then?
Thanks for considering this.
(written, not sent)
Donors Choose is starting to make me feel a little uneasy. I am not sure what really separates it from electronic begging? There’s also something distasteful about, well, pimping (I can’t think of another word – can you?) out poor kids (of color) in order to get the money for things that other schools and students take for granted, like books (my project), technology, toothbrushes, math manipulatives, etc.? Part of me wants to make this special distinction between essentials like art supplies and ‘extras,’ like the opportunity to go on a trip, but I’m not sure such a distinction is valid.
My mother is a fundraiser, so I can say with some confidence that the U.S. is an extremely philanthropic country. And education is an easy cause to support. Still, should we be normalizing the use of Donors Choose? Can we use the program and lobby for increased funding for our classrooms? Because if legislators see what we are finding our own resources through programs like Donors Choose, will they find the need to address school funding – in a more sustained and, in the case of Ohio, legal way – less urgent?
Teachers with some amount of initiative shouldn’t have to go begging anonymous people and publicity seeking corporations for money for musical instruments or Spanish language books? And maybe we should be better trained on how to seek grants for the likes of educational class trips. Or maybe, just maybe, individual teachers shouldn’t be in the fundraising business at all.
Best and Henig miss the point here. I agree with Henig that we have democratic structures set up to address funding issues – which makes the existence of appointed school boards something of a mystery to me. But I have no (big) problem with teachers who show initiative to “go rogue” and seek funds for special projects. It’s when this becomes the expectation (on both sides) that I get quite concerned. If those responsible for addressing funding issues pass the proverbial buck and say to themselves that Donors Choose will help address inequities that I object. Maybe it comes down to this – teachers should not have to use Donors Choose to get the basics, like library books. School funding in Ohio has been declared unconstitutional 4 times. 4 times and nothing has been done about it. I am absolutely certain that if the funding issues were arranged to the favor of poor students of color (quite often the students who need the additional funding), the white and wealthy constituency would be in an uproar. I already see more than a few indications that the ethically dubious practice of fundraising goes on quite often among this constituency. For now, the response to Donors Choose has been astonishing. What if it doesn’t remain so supportive? What if there’s another crash, like in 2008? Will that mean some schools will go back to being without certain basic supplies?
I’ve written before about my fellowship at the Cleveland Museum of Art. I was exhausted at the end of the school day today but in keeping with the last three sessions, within minutes of beginning our work, I was completely revived and engaged. Now that it’s over, I find myself wanting to try to figure out what made it so great.
- It was sustained. I’ve been to many great days of PD or even great sessions, but to have the opportunity to meet for three days in the summer and then 4 afternoons over the course of the year created a great deal of depth in our work, in our understanding of the museum, and in our ability to work with each other.
- Strong facilitation. I never once thought to myself, “I can’t wait until this piece of the agenda is over.” The facilitator was awesome both during the sessions and doing what I’m sure were untold hours of logistics to make sure things ran smoothly. Though I did not respond well initially, I appreciated it when she challenged me on something. She was also consistently accessible for assistance with things outside the realm of the Fellowship.
- Time to explore. I already loved the museum. But the opportunity to spend time in galleries I had never explored before as well as parts of the museum I’d never seen – I could have spent days with the Conservator (that was so cool!) – just enlarged the museum for me. Now I love it even more. And I feel comfortable there.
- Clear sense of mission. This overlaps with #2. The facilitator always made it clear what she wanted us to gain from the Fellowship and what the museum wanted to gain from us. I understood from the beginning how our work was part of the museum’s work.
- I just learned so much. To have the time to hear teachers think through the projects they planned to do or had recently completed gave me so much respect for them and so many ideas of my own. And I learned not only about different kids of art and different teaching strategies, but new ways of thinking about how to use the museum.
- Fun. I had a good time. I did yoga today. In the lobby! I’d keep going if I could. I hope maybe they’ll let some of us work with the new cohort next year. I’d definitely meet someone at the museum and help them plan their project. I would have enjoyed doing some reading in between sessions, maybe accompanied by “Here are some suggested things to investigate at the museum if you want to and have the time between our meetings.”
I’ve always found January – March to be the most difficult time of the school year. It could have something to do with the fact that I’ve generally lived and taught in cold weather places, and the darkness and the grey can get to me. And this year, there was the special euphoria of starting a new school, though that makes me wonder why starting January in a new building did not revive those good feelings.
The end of the year comes with the “What did I do this year?” kind of feeling when it seems like your students have learned nothing. And there’s also the frenzy to finish what you had planned for the year before the frenzy of standardized tests and band concerts.
I’m not sure why the Wintertime Blues feel especially intense this year. My morale is not great, and I have to push myself to keep my energy going. Maybe the honeymoon has worn off a bit, especially with the adults. Maybe we’re trying to do too much too soon. Maybe I’m just getting old. Who knows? It’s not a good feeling.
I have greatly admired and respected two of the three principals I’ve worked for in the last four years. Both of them got me thinking about the stoplight metaphor, often because grades or test scores or something like that would be presented using those colors as codes. The symbolism is likely obvious. The green kids are going to be fine. The red kids are not. Our work, they both argue, is in the yellow. Though I’ve tried to follow their lead and adopt this philosophy, it has never sat quite right with me. I don’t know why, but for some reason today I had a kind of epiphany. I wanted to do my work in the red because the power of my skills, my character, my motivational talks, my whiteness would mean that I could lift them out of the red, have them leap over the yellow and land triumphantly in the green. I think what I realized today is that I can’t do it. I don’t think – though I worry about this too – that this means I’ve given up on them. It just means (I hope) that I’ve finally learned to recognize my limits, the limits of my training, the limits of myself, the limits of my whiteness.
There are those trained to work with students who read on the 1st and 2nd grade level and are in 9th grade. I am just not one of them. I will try what I know, and I am always willing to learn and try more, but given limited time and energy, I think I finally understood what these two principals have been trying to tell me. Our work is in the yellow. I can do that and challenge the green students at the same time. And I can work with a student in red who demonstrates any kind of spark of a work ethic or interest. I’m bringing in two books for red students tomorrow in the hopes that something, finally, might prompt them to read. And I will push them to write and think and create. And I will call it modifications or differentiation or whatever the word of the day is. Ultimately, though, my efforts are best spent on those on the border. I should have learned this a while ago. After the first year of teaching in the International Baccalaureate program, I received our scores. My Assistant Principal asked me what I thought of them. (For those who don’t know, the scores range from o-7; 4 is considered passing. That’s enough to know for this story to make sense.) I said, “I’m not surprised by the students who got a 6 or 7. It’s the students who got 4s that surprised me.” Her response? “That’s teaching.”
There’s a great moment in Dana Goldstein’s The Teacher Wars in which she describes an international group of educators watching a video of an American teacher’s classroom. One of the non-American teachers keeps asking to stop the recording and asks, “What’s that?” After a while, the American teacher finally realizes what’s so foreign to the teacher who was asking for the recording to be stopped. It was the intercom.
Today was that kind of day. Testing the intercom. Teachers stopping to “peek in” to the classroom (we’re in a new building; many of my students are their former students, etc.).
We know and agree on about 4 things in education. 1 of them is that we shouldn’t interrupt classes. So let’s not do that. Let’s make class time sacred. Because if we don’t, how can we expect the students to do so?
This is a story about a friend. And not ‘a friend’ as in I am trying to disguise the fact that I’m writing about myself, but a friend. Really. So, Mom, don’t call.
A story I tell, probably too often, is about Opening Day at Wrigley Field in the mid-late 80s. I could look up the exact year if it mattered, but it doesn’t. What matters is that prior to the previous season, Major League Baseball seemed to think Andre Dawson was washed up. So he offered his services at what I remember as the league minimum (again, I’m not sure that the details matter, so please don’t bother correcting me) and the Cubs signed him. And he hit close to 50 home runs. I think it was 49. So when he came out to right field on Opening Day the next year, the fans were chanting “An-dre, An-dre” and bowing to him. And I remember in the midst of all of that bleacher craziness thinking about how hard it must be to walk away from all of that, how hard it must be to know when you’re finished.
Now there are age issues or health issues or other circumstances that could prompt my exit from the classroom one day. A few issues that have come up, like No Nonsense Nurturing, have fallen into the category of a hill I was willing to die on, but my resolve was never tested, but then this. My friend and former colleague bought a bulletproof vest last night.
I want to try to stick to what I know to be true here. A student brought a gun into the school. A student came to my friend’s classroom and asked to hide in a closet. In the end, another student reported the gun-wielding student to security. No one was hurt. Those of you who know me and / or read this regularly will know the school. It is rocked by violence on a regular basis.
And my friend, an excellent teacher in his own subject and one of those people who are great to have on a faculty because he is willing and able to do whatever is needed. (He once told me that chickens make a contribution to breakfast and that pigs make a commitment. When it came to teaching, he said, he wanted to be a pig.) I have also had the opportunity to see him as a husband, a father and to hear stories about him as a brother and a son. All told, when I told him I loved him on one of my last work days with him last year, I meant it. I already knew of his experience with guns. And now he has a bulletproof vest.
At first, the moral of my story is that when he saw himself in the store contemplating which vest to buy, well, that should have been his sign to himself that it was time to quit. I know some offer the notion that educators should be armed, and if that becomes the requirement, it would mean it was time for me to go. I am certainly never buying a bulletproof vest any more than I am carrying a gun at school (or anywhere else). And I still think he should quit. The first rule of teaching is to keep the children safe, physically. But the school, under its current lousy leadership, has an obligation (moral, contractual, fiscal – whatever suits you) to keep its teachers safe too. And clearly, he does not feel safe. One mutual colleague suggested he might be overreacting. Maybe. But I know him as a reasonable person. I know this recent event did not happen in isolation, that it just may have been the exclamation point. But it’s enough. He should quit.
But I realized that this can’t be the complete response. He should quit for his safety. And he, we, also need to change the terms of the fight. After the recent Presidential election, a lot of words have been written in response to more or less the same question: how did we get here?
And that’s the question I have now: how did we get here? How did we get to the point where a talented and passionate teacher is so disrupted by the amount of violence surrounding his school that he buys a bulletproof vest? How do we make sure that not only my friend is safe, but that all teachers and students are safe? How did we get here? And how are we going to step back from this particular brink? And stay back. We know you cannot learn when you are hungry. Well, you cannot teach when you are afraid.
So not only do I want my friend to quit, I want him to quit publicly. I want him to let people know what he bought and why, and why this will likely be his last year of teaching. I want people to know that just as we can’t accept the national scene as any version of normal, this, even if it is in the “inner city.”
I am sure there are millions of ideas about how we got here. I’m not even sure that I can say what ‘here’ means. Perhaps it’s enough to say that ‘here’ is in the aisle of some store looking at your options for bulletproof vests.