When Will McDonough was a little boy, he loved to learn.
In fact, he still does.
Will is a teacher now, and every Thursday he writes about something he's learning in the classroom. He's pretty busy, so he takes just 30 minutes to free write; then, regardless of how polished the ideas or mechanics might be, he publishes it.
It's incomplete. It's a start. And it feels good.
I have challenged them to create a presentation about cities--cities of Southwest Asia. Some people, we discussed, call it the middle east. These are cities whose names are challenging to pronounce and many of them are cities they didn’t even know existed.
I have given them twenty minutes to create the presentation.
Twenty minutes to think about the audience, the clarity, the images, the words.
They have twenty minutes to collaborate, to share their work, to ask questions of each other, to edit, to provide feedback.
Sure, they have created powerpoints before.
But never at the same time.
Never sitting six feet apart.
Never with masks.
Never on a Monday morning.
As their teacher watches their every move.
I listen to the noise of their connections...
“Okay, I will start the Google doc and share it with everyone.”
“I just created the slides, so everyone pick a country and write your name next to it on the first slide.”
“Everybody write down the city you are doing.”
“Should we all use the same type of slide?”
“Yes...we need parallel structure.”
“Okay, everyone I made my slide--”
“Now you have to do research. We need to get images of the flags.”
“Is anyone doing Jerusalem?”
“I am.”
“Okay. I will do Kuwait City.”
“How do you make the box thing?”
“Oh, I’ll come show you.”
“Do we just need two facts about each city?”
“Where are we supposed to put the pictures?”
“Let’s do it in the blue area.”
“So, just bullet points?”
“Yes. The city, the country, and an image of the city and the country’s flag.”
“Can I listen to music while I work?”
“I watched a video about a guy who listened to music and got, like, a lot of homework done.”
“So we are just doing image, flag, and two facts, right?”
“So, how many facts?...just two?”
“Just check the requirements page.”
[8 minutes in and now nobody is talking…]
“Time check. How are we doing?”
“When does the class end? 9:25?”
“We have 11 minutes left.”
“Can someone reshare the document with me?”
“I got you, I got you.”
“Can we have more than one picture?”
“Can we do more than two bullet points?”
“Wait, there are 22 slides, but only 14 of us...some of us will have to do more if we finish early.”
“Okay, I got you.”
“Can someone do Medina?”
“Let’s make a list of the remaining ones.”
“Okay, time check…”
“This looks awesome everyone.”
“One minute…”
“Okay, who’s got San’aa?”
“Riyadh is almost done.”
“Make sure you put where the country is.”
“This worked out better than I thought.”
I am wearing a mask as my students close their laptops.
I am wearing a mask as they rush out of the room to recess.
Perhaps it stems from having grown up in the white mountains of New Hampshire with the seemingly endless stacking of wood, the day-long mountain adventures deep into the Pilot and Presidential mountain ranges, and the underlying "Live Free or Die" modus operandi.
Even now, as a resident of coastal Connecticut, where there are few wood stoves and even fewer mountains, I love the days that exhaust me. I'll run miles of hills until my quads scream for mercy, and I'll chase my kids around at the beach until the sun sets.
But this return to school? Boy, oh boy, has it tried me in terms of managing my exhaustion. After 12 years of working at the same school, everything is new, every person is on deck and necessary, and finding time to rest is nearly impossible.
Even with the frenetic pace and constant shifting as we venture forth, after spending last spring learning and teaching from home, and wishing for a day with my students again, this start to the school year is already the most fulfilling I've ever had as a teacher. I have relished every day, every class period, every conversation, every exchange with my students. I love being here among these people.
You see, even with masks handicapping our facial expressions and muffling our words, I feel like I've never gotten to know my students more quickly. And part of that reason stems from the fact that we can't smile at each other.
Nonverbal cues like smiling at an individual student, or knowingly scrunching our faces in frustration, or raising our eyebrows and dropping our jaws when we wait for a moment of slight (and tasteful) sarcasm or humor to drop on our unknowing students are the bread and butter of an 8th grade teacher's toolbox. Without facial expressions we are missing an opportunity to connect, reassure, and develop trusting rapport with our students.
So what have I done? Well, I've been more intentional in the ways I'm communicating. I've needed to show warmth with intentional words and communication. And I've asked for more feedback from my students. I've used phrases like, "Okay, so this is why I am assigning this..." or "The important thing to me in moments like this is..." because I realize we might not be together for the whole year. We might be on Zoom in a few months...or even a few weeks. And I don't want to waste a minute.
In fact, I'm assigning all my tests and quizzes as take-home assignments this month because I'm terrified that I'll waste an entire period when we could have been connecting and engaging in big, meaningful learning moments with them quietly writing things on their computers.
We don't know how many days we have. So in a world that doesn't allow me to smile, I need to smile with my energy, I need to check in more frequently to read the room, and I need to authentically remove any mystery about how much I love being my students' teacher.
I texted a friend, Ryan, the other day. I was checking in on his kids' return to school. He's not a teacher, but he works with young people. "How are you, really?" I asked in the text.
"I'm excited to live out the day." he replied.
Me too, my friend. May we wake excited to live, because in that living out of today, we are the lucky ones.
Don’t get me wrong, I love school. In fact, I am probably one of a small minority of folks who has actually never dreaded September. Even middle school. Even when I had braces and acne.
I couldn’t wait for the crisp, foggy mornings of autumn and that first day of school.
Loving school, I now realize, was somewhat of a privilege. I love people and I love learning, sure, but I have also been truly blessed by great teachers at really incredible schools throughout my life.
What I haven’t liked, though, is the direction of “back-to-school.” Let me explain.
For me, there has never been anything that goes backward. It’s the word that’s wrong. A return to school is 100% forward, it’s all progress, it’s all fresh. So really, it’s the backwardness of back-to-school I don’t like.
Retired Independent School Head, and one of my former bosses, Peter O’Neil used to say that no school has ever existed twice. Each year, he explained, the school is created entirely new. While the space is the same, the dynamics and relationships, skill sets and growth, the class rosters and staffing assignments have all changed, transformed, evolved, and been reborn like a Phoenix rising in thunderous renaissance from the dormant ashes of a summer away.
Nevertheless, whether forward or backward, old school or new, this year is different.
No matter how students and teachers are returning, nobody is going back to the same space. The space of school, itself, has transformed into something new and unknown. The spaces of student-teacher relationships have changed; as have parent-teacher partnerships, and collegial bonds between teachers. Friendships will look different, and the space held for a student who needs an empathetic ear, or some encouraging eye contact is different. With mouths hidden behind masks, the only smiles we can extend will likely be exchanged over Zoom.
We are navigating new waters, climbing mountains through thick fog, brambles scratching our legs, and nightfall masking our way. Certainly, there will be beautiful moments of euphoria as we see breaks in the trees, find our rhythm, and celebrate summits; but just as seafarers and bushwacking mountaineers face adventures in the unknown, we too will have tools of navigation.
The stars followed by ancient mariners will be our students. They will guide us and we will, in many cases, follow their lead. Of course, there are safety measures that are urgent (as there are in the sea), but the direction is clear. The direction is onward.
We have a compass, too. Our compass holds true to our learning objectives, our lesson plans, and our curriculum…but the students outweigh them. Compasses break, they fall into the sea…the students are constant, they are our stars, our guiding lights.
We are not going back to anywhere this fall. We are going onward, chasing the horizon with our eyes to the heavens.
Over the summer, Katie Reilly wrote an article in Time Magazine outlining the reality that some teachers are electing to retire instead of returning to the classroom this fall. And while this is an occurrence every year, this year feels different. EdWeek Research Center surveys even went so far as to suggest that 65% of educators said they want school buildings to remain closed to slow the spread of the COVID-19 virus and with many teacher’s unions around the country threatening to strike this week as students return, the future is uncertain.
Parents are struggling to support their children at home as many of them scramble to scrap together child support and a learning-from-home model that is stimulating and effective. Last spring, studies suggest that children suffered significant learning loss during this period of remote schooling, worsening the achievement gap between affluent and low-income students.
Even before the virus, though, dating as far back as 2017, estimates were that as many as 200,000 US teachers were leaving the profession each year, and that over 50% of classroom instructors did not stay in the field after their first five years.
The reasons for this are many, of course. Some articles have cited lack of respect, administrative red tape, exhaustion from unreal expectations, standardized test fatigue, low salaries, student loan debt, a desire to do something new…the list is endless, and — of course — it differs dramatically depending on the environment and circumstances of the teacher.
But you know what I’ve never heard a teacher say?
“I just don’t like the kids any more.”
Nope.
People tend to get into teaching because they care about kids. But these are unusual times and we are not heading back to do the jobs we signed up for last February. Still, I imagine for any educator weighing whether to return to the classroom, whether online or in person, their hearts are being tormented with the stress caused by their love for their students.
There is, of course, a silver lining for those of us who have spent the summer preparing for September. Teachers are learning more than they ever have before, and they’re learning and working harder for one simple reason. It’s not the pandemic, it’s their students.
The word disaster comes from two Greek words, dis-, meaning apart or away, and astros, meaning stars. In essence, to the seafaring Greeks, the greatest disaster was a night without stars. That is how teachers feel about their students.
The work they’re doing, too, is not just wiping tables and reminding students to put on their mask, or scheduling Zoom calls, or managing groups of students who are physically present and sitting in their bedrooms; no, the work is about ensuring that students are cared for, connected, and supported. It is asking of ourselves, Is there a better way to be doing this? We have become culturally attached to the phrase “Back to School” in this country, but I believe the circumstances call for something new.
It is September 1st. We are heading onward to school, navigating the unknown in pursuit of our stars. This pandemic is, indeed, an epic challenge for us all. Yet as teachers and students return this month to spaces of learning, both online and off, we do so with courage. We are boarding our ships together, and with a clear bearing ahead, we call into the winds that fill our sails, “Onward,ad astra!”Onward, to the stars!
[Note: this piece appeared on Medium.com on 9/1/2020]
I remember the day, the date, the moment I learned about Juneteenth. Austin, Texas. October 10, 2016. The annual conference for the Association of Middle Level Education . I walk into a room at the Austin Convention Center. The room is almost filled to capacity, but I find a seat on the edge, right toward the front. Clearly, Marlena Gross-Taylor's session about honoring culture and diversity with colleagues is going to be good. And I am ready. After all, I've just delivered my own presentation--my first legitimate conference presentation ever--about the importance of teaching global citizenship to middle schoolers. And I'd killed it. Everyone had been nodding their heads, firing on all cylinders alongside me. The presentation had gone immeasurably well and now I was ready to sit back and hear an inspiring speaker talk about culture and diversity--conversations I'd been having at my own school for months. I was floating. Flying. Soaring as I walked into the room. And, yes, if you can't tell, I was also smug, cocky, and self-confidently woke beyond measure (a term I cringe now as I write it). I was an ally. I was one of the other white folks in the room. I got it. This was my jam. And I was about to be humbled. The first activity included a Bingo game that asked each of us to fill out answers to questions about culture. We had to walk around the room, finding people who could answer a variety of questions. Examples included finding someone who could explain what a Quinceañera is, or someone who has had their name mispronounced, knows what ASL is, or who has eaten lumpia.
After about ten minutes, I'd connected with a number of folks. It was a great ice breaker; we all knew some things, and we all learned some things. Some people had called out bingo, but I had one more square to fill in.
Find someone who knows what "Juneteenth" is.
June what?
I was 32 years old. I'd been a history major in college. I had taught US history. I was chair of the history department at my school. I had never heard of Juneteenth before in my life.
So when I found myself enthusiastically asking a Black woman from Ohio who had been teaching 4th grade special ed since the 1970s, "Hi, do you know what Juneteenth is?," I suddenly felt so small.
"Oh honey...(then a long pause)...Yes, I know what Juneteenth is."
She shook her head slowly and looked me in the eyes.
"What do you teach?"
I spent the rest of the day kind of in a daze, drifting from session to session at the conference. I wasn't hungry at lunch.
According to Google on my iPhone, Juneteenth is the American holiday celebrating the date--June 19th, 1865--when the final enslaved people (in the state of Texas where I was standing at the moment, no less) were informed of the Union victory and that they were free in the USA.
I went for a run along the Colorado River. I remember stopping and standing, sweating in the sun, and looking out into the rippling brown water.
And I just couldn't get the look of disappointment this woman had on her face out of my head.
And, me...I just felt so embarrassed. So ashamed. I had so many questions...
I thought Abraham Lincoln was the "Great Emancipator" who ended slavery, but he died two months before the final slaves were freed in Texas.
And why did Juneteenth seem only to be recognized, only celebrated, only known by Black Americans?
Why had my history teachers never told me about Juneteenth?
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I have recently been told that a commitment is more important than a goal.
And for me, as a white man, being anti-racist needs to be a commitment. I need to do it every day. It reminds me of how I felt during my first few months of marriage or fatherhood, when I realized I can't just try to be a good husband or a good dad...it needs to be something I recommit to each day.
Being anti-racist is like that, I think. Because every morning when I wake up as a white man I have to actively support the positions for which I stand. The default is to be silent and to allow things to function as they naturally do. "Business as usual." But in America, business as usual for someone like me is also enabling white privilege built on the racist backbone of America's history (and present) to reign supreme. It's not just allowing it, it's condoning it.
Juneteenth recognizes a moment in history when people said, we are going to be who we say we are. We say we are the land of the brave, the equal, and the free, but until action is taken and we ensure that no person is left behind, we fail ourselves as a nation, as a human race.
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This Friday, June 19th, is Juneteenth.
I won't be cooking a special meal. I won't be buying anyone gifts or wearing a special outfit. But I am going to tell everyone I know that it is Juneteenth. I am going to talk to my family and my kids about it.
And I am going to share this list of 137 organizations people can donate to in support of Black lives and communities.
I don't know if saying "Happy Juneteenth" makes sense. In fact, I am pretty certain it doesn't. Instead, I'll opt for a simple reminder that "It's Juneteenth. The work is not done." Ending racism is not the work of BIPOC (Black ND Indigenous People of Color). It is the work of white people, just as educating white people is not the work of BIPOC.
Transforming myself cannot be a goal, it must be a commitment. It is a commitment I make on my own, for this is MY work, MY evolution, MY eradication of the threads of racism that make up the fabric of my own white identity.
Each day, my job is to listen, and to learn, to do my best, and own my mistakes. It is a commitment I will renew with each day's dawn...yes, that's it: a re-commitment, for the work is never done.
In this time of relative isolation I've decided I want to retain a growth mindset...I want to be creative and I want to remind myself that little steps each day will lead to big results. One fun and simple way I've tried to do this is by doing a blind line drawing each day.
Here's what I do.
1) set up my iPad or iPhone camera in "selfie" mode
2) take out a writing implement and piece of paper
3) without looking away from the "selfie" (i.e. I never look at my drawing, itself), I draw a self portrait
Each time I do it, it ends up a little different...and that's okay. I'm learning things about moving slowly, about space and time, and also about trusting my inner voice. I also have been embracing my own imperfection and I've studied my own face (weird, but really interesting to do as I don't necessarily spend much time carefully looking at the shapes and lines that constitute my visage).
Anyway, I encourage you to give it a try! Maybe we can have a virtual art show one day.
I wanted to share this resource with you. My wife, Nicole, and I created it when we wanted to process the negative/neutral/positive emotions we were experiencing as well as the ways we think/feel/do in response to those emotions.
What you can see in the above is that the left column shows negative emotions.
The middle column shows neutral emotions.
The right column shows positive emotions.
On the horizontal rows, we have thinking (top), feeling (middle), and doing (bottom row).
Our hope was that we could share a tool for folks to process their emotions and move forward. I am sharing it with you because there are so many ways to use this as a launching point for the #nextrightthing
Perhaps you could make a list of the things that calm you so you can revisit them when you need calm. Maybe you could write a poem about one of them, or leave a message for a friend reflecting on one. Really, this can be a tool for anything you want it to be.
Speaking of the next right thing, one of my calming strategies is Disney music. So here is the song, Next Right Thing, from Frozen 2.
I want to connect with you this morning in an effort to say a few things.
1) First, I just want to say hello.
So, hi. I want to extend some social connection to you all in the midst of this unprecedented time of "social distancing." I wonder what this is like for each of you, and how you might be managing. I imagine, in some ways, your generation is benefitting because of your relationship with technology. Perhaps some of you are still feeling a sense of community and camaraderie through group texts, silly Tik-Tok videos, or other means of communication. It reminds me of that poem we read that included the line "I pledge allegiance to the group text..."
2) And, of course, at the same time, I know that technology can only do so much to unite us in times such as these. This is hard.
3) Over the course of the next few weeks I am going to start posting some content on my blog. By no means is it homework or required, but it is certainly an invitation. You can comment, you can send me an email, and you can reflect on any of the things I post. Or, do nothing. Enjoy your time away from school (and me) and just do what you need to for yourself. Take this time to be a human being (not just a human doing).
4) Since we last saw each other on Wednesday, I've thought about two specific things we've worked on together this year. The first was our study of "ubuntu," the Zulu word that Desmond Tutu describes as "I am because you are, and because you are, I am." In essence, it speaks to that reality that our own humanity is irrevocably tied up in everyone else's humanness as well. Nothing feels more important than this right now.
I've also thought a great deal about poetry, and about the ways poems try to "put words to what can't be said," as Julia Alvarez so beautifully put it. This is such a time for poems. I look forward to reading your poetry in April (thanks to those of you who sent me your digital chapbooks, and no worries to those of you waiting until our return from break) and I encourage you to keep writing. There are likely a litany of emotions you're feeling right now, and by putting words to them you will be saving a relic of these days for your future self, and you will be leaving a legacy for future generations. The things you feel, and the words you put to them as eighth graders are so important. So feel your feelings, and write them down.
5) Weirdly, this whole change has really made me miss each of you (it's only weird because this is technically our first day of spring break). Our time shared in the classroom this year has been so important and the unknown that lies ahead just made me want to check in with you. So, hi. I hope you're all doing alright. Let this be an extension of myself and an invitation to engage with me over the break. I am excited to read your World Congress papers, and I invite you to follow my blog in the days to come.
Thanks for reading. I sincerely wish you well. Reach out if you need some human contact. Remember that right now matters.
Sometimes I get jealous of birds who, as they soar, have so many directions from which to choose.
I like to run in the woods for this reason. I love the feeling of having endless trails and wooded paths to blaze down; I love the opportunities to fly over roots and around rocks--the nuances and variability is just endless and beautifully poetic. The rhythm one of improvisation and movement, momentum and balance, all of it a beautiful dance.
I suppose that's why I hate the treadmill.
All of it, though, corresponds to our human relationship with space.
Sometimes, we need space from humans. As Roderick Nash writes in my favorite nonfiction book Wilderness and the American Mind,
"Wilderness appealed to those bored or disgusted with man and his works. It not only offered an escape from society but also was an ideal stage for the romantic individual to exercise the cult that he frequently made of his own soul. The solitude and total freedom of the wilderness created a perfect setting for either melancholy or exultation."
Yet, at other times we need a peaceful, quiet space to be withother humans.
In spheres of learning, like the one I inhabit with my students at the school where I teach, everything is about human beings and the spaces in which we spend time.
Sure, the relationships are most important, but the links between autonomy and collaboration, between support and self-advocacy, are a constant dance of beautiful proportions. Whether academic or social-emotionally, schools are fragile places because at any given moment we--as inhabitants of schools--are required to gauge what those around us need--for themselves and from us.
Mac, a ninth grader at our school, spoke today during his "This I believe" speech about the importance of being outside...of the dueling personalities of wildness and peace in nature. And it has made me think of the ways I hold space for my students, and of the ways that caring for them.
The Rev. angel Kyodo williams (one of two female zen teachers of African descent in history) says, "Love is space. It is developing our own capacity for spaciousness within ourselves to allow others to be as they are."
And this is so much of what we do as educators: we engage in the space between ourselves and our students. We invite them into the sphere of our own experiences and we ask for permission to coax their own realities and identities out of them. Sometimes our students "need space," and other times they need us to fill their space with support and care.
Like birds, there are so many directions to fly. Sure, the rigid rails of the textbooks and curriculum churn forward like a chuffing freight train with a destination and a time table and a conductor managing the decorum and accountability...but the education of humans doesn't actually look like that.
In scripture, Matthew 6:26 reads, "Behold the birds of the sky, that they don't sow, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them."
The space between ourselves and our students is fertile. And from that space we harvest moments filled with both melancholy and exultation. But in both, there can be joy.
My students remind me of this daily. For them, on even my worst days, I want to answer the call of Jamie Tworkowski, who calls us to be "a living, breathing, screaming invitation to believe better things."
I realize I have drawn inspiration from a variety of people's words in this post. I will end with more words that are not my own: my favorite poem of this week, "Wild Geese," by Mary Oliver.
May we, as teachers--along with all the teaching and assessing and affirming and guiding--above all else, find space in each day to announce our student's place in the family of things.
Earlier this week I watched a video clip from a well known personality in the world of personal development and growth. This celebrity enjoys interviewing experts in a variety of fields, each of whom offers insights to help viewers rethink the systems, patterns, and mindsets that dictate the ways they function and interact with the habitats and people around them.
I enjoy gleaning insights from these talks, and I often find application to the relationships I cultivate in my classroom.
This week, I listened as an expert professed that "the worst exchange we can make as professionals is trading our time for money."
I understand that if we can create systems that allow our money to grow without our daily engagement or manipulation (i.e. "passive income" or "compounding income"), our money grows more quickly.
But when it comes to impact...when it comes to the exchanges that have value, I just don't see it.
Sure, I could create programs and systems that enable my work as a classroom teacher to be conducted in the absence of my instruction, conversation, or connection with them. I could build apps for other teachers and sell my lesson plans online and engage in all those entrepreneurial pursuits...and I might do that. In fact, I think about it often.
But the reality is, when I think about my decision to be a teacher, shortcuts and growth just can't be fabricated. The currency in a classroom is in the relationship. And relationships take time.
Without connections, something would be missing.
Education isn't about what we do. It's about how we do things. How we spend our time.
Our shared days in the classroom are finite, and yet we have the opportunity to be with one another in these moments. Our time is our currency, because nothing is of greater value.
This week, as many of the students in my classroom were out sick, we happened upon a really wonderful project that takes time. My students are creating maps of Africa and looking for correlations between them. My hope is that they will struggle to see ways that their research and collections of data align with one another; but sometimes they won't. Sometimes the investments of time they make will be distinguished by the lack of correlation...by the thing they fail to see come to fruition. I want to leave them enough time to be okay with that...to appreciate the journey.
They are trading time for something that might not fill their bank account...that might not compound. That might not yield a 100% when it comes to conventional measurements of "winning" or "victory."
But I love spending time with my students as they collect data, as they pore over spreadsheets and graph ideas. I love seeing their colored pencils emerge as they draw maps and we play music from the ancient Malinke empire of west Africa.
We are spending time slowly, together, letting the process guide us. Some of the maps aren't particularly good when it comes to coloring within the lines and employing key-related conventions of color and cohesion, but none of that matters. The project is about spending time well. It is about forgetting where we are and letting the final product emerge without the stress of a looming deadline. Sure, it needs to be finished, but instead of having a quick deadline, I decided this year to extend the deadline and invite students who finished their maps earlier to look up supporting images, draw a third map, find a current event that linked to their inquiry, or do something else that is rich and immersive in guiding the ways they're growing.
So, that's what I've learned, that's where I am.
Slowing down and holding space for the directions and inspirations of my students.
This week I didn't have time to write for thirty minutes, so I thought about how I could hack the medium of my weekly reflection. I didn't have thirty minutes, but I DID have ten minutes to talk to myself about what I learned this week.
So, here I am taking a risk at 3:00 on a tired Thursday afternoon in my first ever Thursday 30 Vlog Post.
If I'm being honest, I often find myself questioning my impact. I wonder whether I'm doing enough, whether I could be doing something more, becoming something more, striving for bigger, greater things.
When I feel lost, the phrase I speak aloud most is, "I just don't know what I'm supposed to be doing."
And today, I thought about impact and about the ways impact is felt and experienced by those around us.
Today in World Cultures class, my students learned about "dumb barter," a method of silent trade employed in the west African Malinke Empire up until about 600 years ago. Instead of having my students take notes and study the activity, though, I had them act it out.
One group of students was the gold-mining Wangara; another were the salt-bearing Berbers; and a third group were the Malinke, an ethnolinguistic group who lived along the Niger and Senegal Rivers.
Because the three groups shared no common language, they relied on drum beats to indicate trade practices, with the drums echoing up and down the river.
So, as my 8th grade students pounded on tables, their classmates navigated a sea of chairs to find their way "up river" to engage in silent trade.
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During morning advisory a group of students was found "studying" for geography by putting together a collection of map puzzles I have in my room.
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Meanwhile, later in the day, during English class, my students were invited to explore the nature and organization of a sestina, a poem with six stanzas of six lines and a final triplet, all stanzas having the same six words at the line-ends in six different sequences that follow a fixed pattern.
They employed the sestina format in constructing chapter summaries of Chimamanda Adichie's novel, Purple Hibiscus. What, they asked themselves, should their six words be? Which words provide poetic richness while also providing textual legitimacy to Adichie's advancement of plot and theme?
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So, what then is the point?
Ah, the point.
Well, the point relates to our impact and the way that our influence is compounded.
So, before I get to the point, a brief comment about compounding.
Imagine you are given a grain of sand on the day you are born. On each birthday, that grain of sand is doubled. On your third birthday you have four grains of sand, and on your fourth birthday you have eight, and so on. Well, by your 65th birthday, do you know how much sand you'll have?
All of it.
Like, literally all of it. You would have the Sahara, the Atacama, the Australian outback, the Thar, th Kalahari, the Mojave, all the beaches.
You would have all the sand in the world.
So, back to the point.
Yesterday I was inspired by a colleague who reminded me of the importance of Howard Gardner and providing opportunities to assess students and inspire students through novel means of engagement.
This colleague compounded that reality by sharing the insight with a group of upper school colleagues.
Now, I have further compounded the impact of connecting multiple intelligence to my students by engaging them in acting and poetry, both creative expressions that are divergent from historic forms of assessment.
Don't get me wrong, neither of these tools was particularly unique or inspired...both were simple. Yet, at the very same time they both opened a door for students to walk through. Will I see my impact? Probably not. After all, all I did was hand each of my students a grain of sand.
But I can fall asleep knowing that when they left my class, my students were given a grain of sand. And tomorrow? Tomorrow, they just might wake to find those very grains have doubled overnight.
I am always looking for new experiences for my students. In fact, I feel experiences are the ways that one's education is defined. As educators, we shouldn't be asking
"What should my students know before they leave my class?"
Rather, we should be asking,
"What should my students experience before they leave my class?"
Experiences impact us and we learn from them, but all learning and knowledge is not experiential. And it should be.
My students recently finished Lord of the Flies and as they embarked on the writing of essays about famous philosophies on human nature and epistemological thinking, I wanted to have them experience something about the various ways that power and corruption and relationships can become intertwined.
Here's what transpired.
I placed, in the center of the room, a bowl of chocolates.
I handed each of my 17 students a marker.
I told them we would play a game. I would tell them how many chocolates were in the bowl. Without speaking to one another, they would write the number of chocolates theywanted to have on their desk (whiteboard markers are awesome). As long as the total number of chocolates written on their desks didn't exceed the number of chocolates in the bowl, they would get the number they'd written. However, if the added number of requested candies exceeded the number in the bowl, nobody would get any.
The first round there were 16 chocolates.
The second round there were 9 chocolates.
The third round there were 9 chocolates, but students had to give their chocolate(s) to someone else.
The fourth round students voted for two people who would decide how the 17 chocolates would be divided.
The fifth round saw one student's name chosen at random; that student was the RULER who could decide how the 17 chocolates were distributed.
The sixth--and final--round invited students to discuss and vote on how the chocolates should be distributed.
(Then, of course, when we were done I made sure everyone had the number of chocolates they wanted)
It was fascinating and I am sure you can imagine how different groups of 8th graders responded.
They experienced something. They felt things. They learned stuff.
“At the back of our brains, so to speak, there was a forgotten blaze or burst of astonishment at our own existence. The object of the artistic and spiritual life was to dig for this submerged sunrise of wonder.” -G.K. Chesterton I think G.K. Chesterton would have made a terrific teacher...or at least he would have centered his educational experience around a pedagogy that possessed great value; the very object of education, after all, should be to dig for this submerged sunrise of wonder. Shouldn't it? I wonder, then, whether our spiritual and artistic selves--however we identify them--might actually be closely tied to our own identities as learners, too. I've always appreciated the word "learner" more than "student" because, while we're always learning, we don't always identify ourselves as "students." For years, I had this Post-It note sitting on my desk:
This served as both my reminder to retain empathy for my students, while also ensuring that I didn't forget to be a learner, fueled by curiosity and an absolute sense of wonder at the "burst of astonishment" in my own mind. Right now, my students are embarking on the "WHOA" Project, an assignment I created to invite them to study something that made them say Whoa!, but that we wouldn't be studying in world cultures this year. It's also an acronym for Worldly Histories, Oddities, & Anthropology. But the root of what I love about these two weeks of exploration is the chance I get to come alongside my students as research assistants. No matter what they are studying, I get to be just as curious and inspired as they are. I feed off their energy. I research with them the relationship to feet in various cultures. ...or the origins and interpretations of Santa Claus around the world... or the varying ways that children are named. Side-by-side, I question the cultural appropriation of EPCOT's World Showcase with a student, and I listen to the stories of Argentinian corruption that another student learned from their parents the night before. It is a magical ride, and all I've done is open a door. And it is this that I love about middle school, about my students who are so fully children and so fully emerging into adulthood. They are fascinated and scholarly. Their brains are awake. They are alive.
They are submerged in the sunrise of wonder.
