Doorways and Barriers

A few weeks ago I wrote a post about how every encounter you have with someone results in the two of you moving toward good, or away from good. Now I didn't mean to sound overly Zoroastrian in my suggestion, but I did want to make a point about the impact we have on others.

The choices we make, the words we use, the ways we make people feel, matter. Yet at the same time, we are not just producers of emotion, we are also recipients of positive and negative messages and stimuli as well.

After being inspired by a fellow educator named Marlena Gross-Taylor's use of the terms "barriers and doorways," I decided to encourage my students to think beyond their own impact by also noticing the messages their worlds were sending them through this idea of metaphorical "barriers" and "doorways" in their day.

I wrote the words above on the whiteboard, answered a handful of questions about what a metaphorical barrier or doorway might look/feel like, and the students were off and running. It was 1:30 in the afternoon, so they'd had plenty of stumbles and successes, yet nothing prepared me for reality: students were able to recall more than twice as many barriers as they could doorways.

Was this true? Were their days full of stumbles, or did they just remember it that way? Did barriers require more of their attention, whereas doorways merely asked them to sprint through, catch their breath, and frantically search for the next trial demanding their attention?

Well I'm certainly not a trained professional in conducting psychological studies, but it awakened my mind to buzzing.

There has been plenty of press in the past five years emphasizing grit and resilience as necessary components of long-term success.  Accordingly, I wonder if, perhaps, my students see barriers not because they are pessimistic or perfectionist, but because they recognize these as opportunities to better themselves, and to learn. Just as we learn little from those with whom we agree, perhaps we grow most from the barriers.

What I wonder, though, is how we--as teachers and parents--can rebrand barriers to think of them as doorways through which we simply can't figure out how to maneuver.

I once read a story about a Scotsman who lived in the 19th century and dreamt of becoming a discus thrower. At the forge by his home he created an iron discus after having read a description of one in a book. He had never been trained, nor had he seen anyone compete in the event...he simply loved the idea of the competition. So there it was, in empty fields of the Highlands that this young man began to throw his disc into the air until he felt he was reaching the distances outlined in his book as being world-class. When he ventured to the city for a competition, however, he learned that the discs had a core of wood, and only the outer shell was made of iron.

He threw the discs as though they were tea saucers, winning every competition in which he took part for the remainder of his life.

Perhaps my students are like this young Scotsman...they are maneuvering barriers now to prepare them for challenges later in life. Maybe they know that life will be hard and so they're piling pressure on themselves because of that.

But what are we teachers to do? How can we convince them that they don't need to hurl discs of iron for the horizon? How can we convince them to see the wildflowers in that very field? How can we help them look for shapes in the clouds, and learn to be still in the peaceful presence of nothing? Is there a place for this? Doorways don't always need to open toward winning or success. What if they just open toward being comfortable in our own skin and knowing that how we are is enough, and worthy of celebration?


Yesterday, one of my students volunteered to share her religion with the class. She prepared a presentation, brought props, and she spoke from the heart. We learned of her beliefs, her alphabet, her traditions, her values. We held artifacts that matter deeply to her. We struggled to pronounce words in her language, and she calmly smiled and urged us to try again, but with our lips like this.

It was beautiful, and it was hard for her to stand up there. For her entire time as a classmate, perhaps her faith has been a barrier, but by sharing it, by trusting us, she created a doorway.

Here's to turning barriers into doors and celebrating them--and ourselves--as we cross each threshold.

The Art of Going There

7/14/2008

"The most romantic of all things is the walk to the mailbox in hope of a letter."

Those were the words that got me. There stood the woman I had only just met--my future bride--speaking words rich with eloquence and glowing with truth. All those in attendance at the writing conference were audibly moved as a hush fell over the hall. While she'd answered a question about why we write, she'd done so much more: she'd revealed to us a granule of that which makes us human. The desire for connection, for a wholeness we cannot accomplish by ourselves. 

Of course I'd be lying if I suggested that, at that very moment, I knew...but the honest answer is that I was too overwhelmed by the power of words to even know what I was feeling. When she and I departed four days--days spent writing, confronting, exploring, and savoring one other's words--later, we exchanged addresses and began an old-fashioned chain of correspondence. Writing hand-written letters to one another.

4/4/1984

Truth be told, my love affair with letter-writing, though, began much earlier. My parents used to refer to mail as either "anybody mail" or "whobody mail." We lived in a tiny schoolhouse in northern New Hampshire and the postal workers' lonely sojourn by our house on Lost Nation Road represented one of the highlights of each day. The 90 degree turn on which our mailbox made its home was often overshot by a late night driver and my father got in the practice of repairing the rusty old mailbox's scrap wood post every couple of months. My mother would eventually paint the words "Good News In Here" on the front.

We loved mail. I loved letters.

4/22/2001

At 17, the testosterone-laden mosaic of my adolescent ethos centered on my passions for sports and writing. So it was no surprise that Sports Illustrated found its way into my lap each week at the local library. I loved the work of Rick Reilly and wrote him a letter.

To my shock, Rick wrote back.

Nothing compared to receiving this letter as an aspiring writer.

10/19/2016

When I shared this letter, these stories, with my students yesterday, I was revealing a part of myself...I was sharing with them more than a letter, or a passion. I was telling them that I trusted them. I was pushing past the awkwardness of emotions and going there.

I'd gotten the idea to focus on letter-writing for 10 minutes a day in English class because I read the four thank-you notes to Michelle Obama published in the New York Times earlier this week. I was moved by the unconventional nature of their wisdom, their gratitude, their beauty. Each reflection (because that's really what they were) brought such enigmatically beautiful poetry to our First Lady's existence. My students and I then embarked together on a detailed scouring of the website Letters of Note, looking for letters, for wisdom, for emotions, for words and phrases, that inspired us.

My students recognized that when people are writing to those they love and admire, they become better writers, their vocabularies swell, they avoid the commonplace cliches and ordinary verbiage of their colloquial vernacular, and seek to put words to what can't be said.

And so it was that we began considering the people to whom we might compose a note of gratitude.

Here are some excerpts.

"...I want to tell you about the first time I went fishing..."

"You probably don't remember the advice you gave me one Thanksgiving, but I do. They're words I'll never forget."

"I don't know how to say thank you."

"There is something about your smile."

"Thank you. Thank you. THANK YOOOOOU."

"I love doing nothing with you."

"We learned a lot more than we realized in second grade, didn't we?"

"There is nobody in the world like you."

“A week later, you died. Cancer stole you away”

“You taught me how to be brave, how to be happy, and how to let go.”

“Hearing stories about your childhood, and everything you’ve been through, made me realize how lucky I am.”

“I’ve always been nervous about doing things.”

“Your smile and laughter is something that people everywhere will never forget.”

“That’s when I found out exactly what you were: an inspiration.”

“The moment I heard the first song, I immediately realized my passion for music.”

“You increased my love for it so much.”

“It’s more than fair to say that this trip really opened up my eyes.”

“When I think about how you risk your life every day, for people you don’t even know, I know you are a real hero.”

“You are a genius!”

“You were a frequent visitor, even though I didn’t see you much.”

“I didn’t notice how much I would miss you until now.”

“Even though we only spent 55 minutes together each day, we always shared a connection.”

“There are so many things that I take for granted that you do.”

“The only way that you can achieve your goal is through hard work, just like anything else.”

“I’d never sought their wisdom or wanted to know what they thought...they’d never given me a reason to.”

“When you first came to my door many years ago, I slammed it in your face and ran away.”







Watching my students shed the bravado of adolescence and embrace an attitude of appreciation was pretty remarkable.

"When you leave the classroom," I added. "Try to look for other moments of admiration in your day. Who do you notice? To whom could you write your next thank-you note?"

I said these words, but I didn't have to. The tone had been set, and it was contagious.

I think I owe them a thank-you note for their tenderness, their courage, and for pushing past the awkwardness of emotions and going there.

the it-ness of each of us

Here's the way this usually works:

I think all week about my own growth, my reflections, my beliefs, my students, my children, my life. 

My life.

I remember being little and looking in the mirror and looking into my own eyes until I looked like a stranger; I recall saying my name aloud until it sounded foreign, weird, inaudibly bizarre as the syllable (for there was only one in my case) fled from my lips, disappearing moments later into the ether of silence. I wondered if what I saw as purple matched the version that other's had, and questioned whether apples tasted the same to everybody, and--if not--how would we ever know? 

And then I would consider my life. I would question myself, my existence, and the indistinguishable it-ness (the essence of just being it) of what it meant to be me.

My life.

So somewhere in the midst of my week (in all its itness, because, like, what else could it possibly be?) I find something to blog about. But this week was different. So many things stimulated and inspired me. Flooded, inundated by ideas and visions and possibility, yesterday came and went without me knowing what to write. Truth be told, yesterday was also one of the busiest spans of 24 hours I've experienced, but nevertheless I spent the day feeling as though the vessel holding that gorgeously impossible broth of ideas in which my brain floats was brimming with a meniscus that was sure to overflow.

But it didn't, and here I am. At a desk. Writing. And because I can't write everything, I'll have to just embrace the spirit of this blog and write something and spend 30 minutes doing it.

It doesn't usually work this way, but today I just need to answer a question, posed to me via Twitter during my time in Austin, Texas at the AMLE (Association of Middle Level Education) conference:

 While I was a student in the course, and assuredly not the teacher, here is my memory of 6-8 grade Latin.

Above the huge marble fireplace in my middle school Latin classroom there was an oversized chart made of graph paper. Each student's name was written along the left side of the chart. Every time a student finished a chapter in our Latin textbook we would fill in a box on the grid. Now, normally, students would progress through the textbook en masse, with teachers delivering lessons and students achieving various degrees of mastery along the way. Karen, my Latin teacher, however, was different. She felt that one-on-one Latin instruction was preferable and that each student should teach themselves the text, leaning on her for support when it was needed. Everything had to be completed, and corrected if necessary, until it earned a grade of 100%. Once a student earned 100%, they could move on.

If a student finished four chapters in a marking period, they earned an A.

Three chapters earned a B.

Two chapters resulted in a mark of C.

And one chapter earned a D.

Oh, and if you had a perfect score on your end of chapter translation you earned a cake. Like a real cake. Like a whole, big Pepperidge Farm personal cake. To eat. During Latin class.

One quick look at the chart, though, in--say--the spring of 1997 would have quickly alerted a classroom visitor to two clear realities: 

1. Will McDonough had four colored boxes filled in next to his name.

2. Two girls in the class were closing in on chapter 30 and would be starting the Latin II textbook by the end of the year.

Yes, that's right. I earned a B during my first trimester of 6th grade and a D during my second trimester.

Now here's the thing: I was a bright kid. I was earning mostly Bs and As in all my other classes. But I didn't care about getting 100% on anything. I would often finish the chapter, but never correct anything to 100%. I was so excited to see what the fortis legatus was going to be doing in the next translation.

Furthermore, we were tessellating the walls with original tessellations in math class; we were building hot air balloons out of Ty-Vek in Science class; we were memorizing lines for Bye Bye Birdie; we were memorizing Emily Dickinson and reading Hamlet in English; and we had just returned from a trip to Quebec City where we'd practiced our French; I'd just mastered a between the legs dribble on the basketball court!

School was so fascinating. So inspiring. So Alive!

And then there was Latin class. Latin class where a perfect translation could earn me a cake? 

Where the entirety of class was spent reading a textbook? 

Alone?!?! 

I was a raging extrovert. I loved my friends. I was curious beyond measure. 

For anyone who was self-motivated and felt deep wells of satisfaction at constructing the perfect translation, this was great. I'm sure those two girls loved their cakes and their perfect notes and their achievement. But those carrots didn't work for me.

So, with two minutes left in this blog, why was I so quick to praise this practice on Twitter if I didn't like it?

Well, I think self-pacing is great when it works. I think students should be able to progress at their own pace, and to master material. What I don't like, though, is the public nature of the graph; the awarding of baked goods; and the one-dimensional teaching model. If a curriculum can be self-paced and dynamic, I'm all for it. But I am a firm believer that middle school needs to be an experience. That it can't just be a student and a textbook and the pursuit of perfection. As Chip Wood remarked, middle school should be a little like summer camp and a little like the Civilian Conservation Corps of the Great Depression: active, project-oriented, and always with a unifying goal of the entire group.

We've got to meet students where they are as both thinkers and learners: as thinkers, they are students who are developing toward adolescence, but as learners they are each unique by that very same ubiquitous it-ness that makes their lives their own.

Movement

My daughter and I share many similarities. We are both the oldest children in our families; we both love adventure; we're both extroverts who thrive off of human connections; we both love morning and autumn and the hopeful anticipation of a letter in the mailbox.

We also both have an insatiable curiosity, a thirst for learning. And along with that desire for new discourse and information comes a penchant for learning something and immediately applying it to our lives. Like, right-at-that-very-second that our synapses fire like pistons and the cerebral cortex starts to chuff up the great mountain of fascination and opportunity, we are ready to teach our new insight to anyone within earshot.

We were born for soapboxes, yes, and I know it can cause some nightmarish tremors with the introverts in our family that feel like some sort of dystopian, endlessly-energized TED talk; yet this gift (or curse) also means that we don't have to plan as much as other people. We can improvise and wing it without a detailed course laid out before us.

Oh, and my daughter is five.*

In any case, I had one of these lightning quick learning experiences last week when I read skimmed something that caught my attention.

The excerpt that caught my interest was by Dr. Larry Crabb, and my understanding of it went like this:

Any interaction you have of more than a few seconds either moves you in a direction that is toward GOODNESS, or away from it.

Now, most certainly, in the 21st Century any notion of goodness as defined by a universal morality has become shockingly ambiguous. One need not look any further than one of America's recent presidential debates to understand that we are dwelling in a world of opaque subjectivity on the matter.

Still, this notion of movement caused me to think deeply about the words our Head of Upper School posed to our community at the beginning of the school year. He encouraged us to ask ourselves, 

"What would my best self do?"

Well, we all have varied views of each other's best selves, but it's likely, at our core, that we know ourselves. We know what it feels like to wake up each morning and simply FEEL GOOD about ourselves.

This morning, in fact, my daughter--that one who loves teaching stuff immediately after learning it--dragged me from bed and into the kitchen: "Dad, look the sun isn't even up yet, but the sky is getting pink...this is the perfect time of day to do the cumbia."

"The what?" I ask, half asleep and putting on a pot of coffee?

"This dance I learned in music class! It is from Latin America. Here, let me show you!"

And there was my daughter in all her glory, teaching me something. Her brain was awake, her heart was awake, and...most importantly, she felt so good about herself.

And this is the heart of it. Our best selves know what it feels like to be humming on all cylinders. We know when we're making good decisions, feeling proud, feeling connected; we know when we're being challenged and being brave, taking risks and surpassing new milestones.

Our brains all wake up in different ways, but having a grasp on ourselves and what wakes us up is important. I loved starting my day with my daughter, being guided toward a deepened understanding of her, and of myself. Her love of dancing in the predawn light of our kitchen was contagious, and in that interaction--one that lasted no more than two minutes--she moved me in the direction of real, tangible goodness.

I know because it made my heart glad. Glad to know her. Glad to be alive. Glad to have today with the movement of the cumbia in my every step and action, and the movement of GOOD in the rhythm of my heart.

*In her words, last week she tipped the scales from being "five and three-quarters" to being "basically six."