It's Never About the Money

Two recent events, one national news (the Chicago teachers' strike) and one a local issue, have got me thinking about money. Besides my normal personal financial worries, I don't usually think about money on a professional level. In some ways, because I believe in fairness, parity, and solidarity, I've felt rather forced into thinking about salaries and benefits and other moneyish things these past few weeks. And I am both bothered and sad.

That's because, in this profession (in nearly every profession, right?), we're not in it for the money. We don't stay in it for the money. Some of us leave it under the pretense of (lack of) money, but most of us are here despite the money. Granted, I work in the state with the highest teachers' average salaries. Still, those salaries don't come close to matching the salaries or potential salaries for other professions with similar degree requirements. So when education critics complain about our high salaries, or when the focus of a walkout turns to what Chicago teachers make, or when anyone questions the teachers' (or in my case, my local union's) motives for demanding a fair deal, two things happen to me: I get my back up, and I get down.

The best way to combat these feelings (for I can only control how I feel; I certainly cannot control anyone else's emotions) is to make a list of why we are here, and what does motivate us:

• The kids. The ones who struggle and the ones who soar. The ones with the newest technological devices and the ones who come to school in too-tight sneaks and dirty hair. The ones who pay close attention, the ones who can't pay attention, and the ones who refuse to pay attention.  The ones who appreciate us now, and the ones who will only appreciate us later. The athletes, the artists, the talkers, the thinkers. Those on the edges and those firmly grounded in the center. Those with baggage and those who think baggage is what you take on a vacation to Cancun. First, foremost, and always, it's about the kids. 

• The collegiality. Our work wouldn't be nearly as meaningful if we didn't, or couldn't, share it with our peers. We, veterans and rookies, learn from each other about classroom management, websites and apps, supplemental texts and new studies, and the kids. Again, and again, it's about the kids.

• The discipline. Not discipline as in self- or how-to, but the subject area that intrigues us and powers our own interests and ambition. Scientists in the lab. Language Arts teachers reading. PE teachers moving in new ways. Library Media Specialists researching. Social workers guiding families to success. And the great thing about our jobs is that we get to do all this, share all this for, with, and because of, the kids. There they are again. Even our chosen areas of study, in the end it's about the kids.

Many of us started our paths to teaching long before college, when we were just young kids setting up classrooms in our basements and quizzing our unsuspecting friends on grammar and math skills. Some of us discovered a love for a subject in high school and decided to parlay that into a teaching career, perhaps because we had a teacher who saw our potential and told us so. Still others came to the profession after unfulfilling first ones elsewhere. Regardless of our myriad journeys to classroom, though, hardly any of us were thinking about how much money we could make. And those very few who did, I'd wager, no longer work among us, or shouldn't. In this profession, if you're not in for the kids, you're not in it. 

Happy to Be in School Again

Teaching teachers is a most difficult job, and very few people are good at it. Very few. Most people who end up training educators have been, at one time or another, in a classroom, so the rest of us expect that those who choose to work in this part of the industry know what it takes to be good. It shouldn't be rocket science.

Just as we recognize the bad ones - and there are a lot - we recognize the good ones, too. There's nothing like the feeling of being praised by teachers, and I've been lucky to experience that on the receiving end. There's also nothing like the feeling of sitting through a training that's done well; we leave feeling respected, enlightened, energized, knowledgeable, and confident.

In my twenty three years of teaching, few openings have gone as smoothly as this year's. And that's with a not-so-great training on the new evaluation document we are piloting. It was the other two and a half days that made the experience such a positive one for all of us (you know when teachers are pleased because they are even more vocal about the good stuff than they are about the bad). That time included:

• Collegiality: From the faculty rock band at Convocation to the teachers-led discussion of our summer professional reading, from the group lunches to the staff/administration Q & As, the connections between us and the sharing of critical information in creative ways were inspiring. 
• Learning: We walked away from every training session knowing what we'd come to learn. Seems simple, but it doesn't happen as frequently as we'd expect. This time, we came, we learned, and we left - brains overflowing, but in a really good way. 
• Fun: Our administrators had a prize bag for good answers, good questions, good ideas, and good comebacks at our very-long, very-chocked-full building meeting. They knew the content was important, but they respected that we weren't thrilled to sit through it, and they looked to us to choose the topic with which we began, they gave us frequent and ample breaks, and they allowed for meaningful conversational deviations that helped us get our collective heads around some pretty heavy new stuff we're doing. The Super Blow-Pops and the mega-boxes of SweetTarts and Good N Plentys were just sweet, sweet, sweet icing on the cake. 

Walking from our building to another on campus for the final session of our PD days, a student teacher who'd interned with us last year made a comment that resonated, and will resonate for days, for the rest of us. He said, "These new teachers must feel like they hit the lottery." 

I felt like I hit the lottery, too. I want to hold on to that feeling and take it with me through the school year. I want to share that feeling with my new students, who will come to classes on Tuesday wondering just what high school English will be like. I want them to learn together, and really learn, and I want them to have some fun while doing it. I want them to feel the way I did this week: happy to be in school again. 

School Year Resolutions

I've been ruminating about this post for weeks. Many, many years ago, when my now-adult daughters were babies, I wrote a newsletter article for their daycare in which I detailed how for-nearly-ever, I have marked the beginning of the school year as a time to set goals. Then, just yesterday, I received a message from one of my oldest (read: longest-lasting) friends that she, too, has always seen the start of school as filled with freshness, opportunity, and promise.

And so it is. For teachers, parents, students, and anyone who's gone to school, the end of summer and the beginning of school is prime time for resolution making. So here are mine for 2012-2013:

I'm going to...

...let it slide; let it ride. Perhaps these two thoughts are synonymous, but I like the rhyminess of this resolution. Letting things slide, whether the thing is a snide comment, a rude parent, a frustrating policy,  or a difficult task, will be one of my primary goals. Sometimes I spend way too much time on an issue. Sometimes I over-analyze. Sometimes I just can't let go. I almost always use my 24-hour rule, but sometimes even 24 hours are too many.  So "let it slide" will become a question I ask myself (and others, as others can already attest to): "Can I let this slide?" I bet "yes" will be a frequent answer. And letting it ride will hopefully address, among so many other applicable instances, all those student issues in which I often find myself embroiled. This part of the resolution is about battle-picking. And we all know how important that skill is. Hopefully attending to what's important, and releasing what's not, will  become less of a chore and more of a comfortable process for me.

...mind the fine line. Actually, while explaining this resolution to a colleaguefriend last night, I asserted that most "fine lines" are really thick black (permanent) Marks-A-Lot lines. Between here and there lies a vast expanse of ground, and too often we excuse our stepping over the line by calling it "fine." I'm going to pay attention to that line, however fine or however wide: between humor and sarcasm, between inspiration and instigation, between acceptance and judgment, between concern and over-involvement, between intent and impact, between expectation and execution.

...through it all, do it all...tenaciously. It's going to be an interesting, busy, over-packed, stressful year. This I know. The getting ready isn't just for 40 weeks of class. It's for 280 days, give or take a few, in a row. Mondays through Sundays. Early morning to late night. On stage during the school day, behind the scenes for many hours before and after. Prepping, planning, instructing, guiding, facilitating, assessing, data collecting, collaborating, analyzing. Wash, rinse, repeat. Accessing the warrior spirit and approaching every task with tenacity will be key.

I'm ready to roll. The resolutions are developed, the prospect of an upcoming year of change and much growth is exciting, and the potential for increased success is great. Now if I could just drop that bright and shiny Times Square ball from my classroom ceiling....

Dreaming and Scheming

I've been lucky this summer. The month of July seemed to pass, if not slowly, at least not quickly. The good news is that I feel as though I used every day well, and on a good chunk of those days, I spent time refueling, mostly. The "bad" news (but really, how dare I say "bad" when we have this much time away from the classroom) is that now, sufficiently refueled, it is time to put it in overdrive as August speeds by. And it will. This I know. The month is booked already.

I spent yesterday and today organizing. Listing. Emailing. Prioritizing. Phone-calling. Calendar-ing. Anyone who knows me can confirm that the color-coding of calendars and the listing of to-dos and tasks are some of my favorite things. Give me some lined paper and fine-tipped Crayola markers and my multiple calendars (Google, Outlook, wall, and planner) and I am an organizing machine. But I also quite enjoy the more abstract parts of preparing for the school year: dreaming and scheming.

So this is what I'm thinking about and these are the questions I'm asking as August looms, as the school year beckons, as I shift into high gear:

A new advisement component for new teachers in the union
Engaging 14-year-old boys in reading literature
My role as a leader within the parent group at my younger daughter's college
Using Twitter as a resource for students and parents
My professional goal(s) for the year
How do we build capacity within our local Association?
Changes to my classroom expectations and grading policies
Student interventions
Building relationships in Advisory
Parent involvement in the classroom and beyond
Goals and topics for this blog
Collegial outreach
What is exciting about English?
Collaborative work in my gradel level for the first time in 3 years
How can I bring more of the union membership together for service or social events?
Piloting the new state evaluation document
How will our curriculum revisions work?
What do I do well?
What do I need to work on?
What should I stop doing?

These are not simple ideas or easily-answered questions; there's no check-off box for this list. But I hope to address each and every one of these items as I spend August preparing for another school year.

First, though, I think I'll go to the parent-teacher store. I feel a new lesson plan book, bulletin board borders, and desk calendar in my future. Bring on the markers!!

What Lies Beneath

A sure sign of summer is the ubiquitous tip jar, especially the one at the local burger place or ice cream stand - the one that's marked up in joyous colors and boldly claims its mission: Tips for Tuition or Help Pay My Way to College. No guesswork required at these places; they're staffed by college kids who need money for school. Very few of us would balk at putting an extra dollar in this jar since we've sent our own kids, or we know families who are robbing Peter to send Paul to university, or we've, at the very least, followed the recent news about student debt.

But what about tipping elsewhere? What about the jars at sandwich shops where just plain adults work? What about the hair stylist? The cabbie? The moving company wrappers and packers? The tour bus driver or leader?

If it's customary to give tips, or if there's a tip jar somewhere, I tip. Usually, I overtip. And I overtip with intention and purpose. My reasons are threefold. First, I like the idea of someone counting out his tip(s) and thinking, "Wow, my customers are generous." I just think that in some karmic way, great tipping begets great service. On a somewhat less superficial level, I overtip because clearly, the recipient's base salary isn't all that huge, and she depends on tips to make up for it. Most importantly, though, I overtip because I have no idea what's going on in this service worker's life and for all I know, he is dealing with issues - financial or otherwise - that are unfathomable or unconquerable. At this level, it's more about the generosity of spirit that's conveyed through overtipping than it is about the generosity of the wallet.

When we apply this last approach to our students, it becomes far less taxing to accept them as they are: kids with all sorts of stuff happening to them and/or around them. Sometimes that stuff is what we'd deem light and fluffy (but it's still stuff); sometimes it's heavy and burdensome and we cannot imagine how the child is managing. Sometimes we'll be aware in some extra-sensory way (we teachers are extra-special-good at this), sometimes we will find out at a grade level, counselor, or parent meeting, sometimes we will just never know.

When we apply this approach to our students' parents (and our colleagues, and even our administrators), we can access our sympathy, and consequently our acceptance and understanding, much more readily. Lost or difficult jobs, loss of parents or siblings, illness, child-rearing woes, any internal or external struggles - these are all problems with which we can identify, or at the very least, understand. And we needn't know to understand. All we need to remember is that for everyone, always, there's always something, there's always stuff.

My pal calls this generosity of spirit "BOTD": giving someone (read: everyone) the benefit of the doubt. While we'll never know just what another is conflicted by, struggling with, or up against, it's highly likely that there's something there. By nature, teachers work in a world of BOTD; it's a by-product of being extra-special-good at sensing our students' stuff. The transfer from the classroom to beyond is easy, then: tip generously, whether in coins and bills or in peace, love and understanding - or, better yet, in all of the above.

What I Want to Be

I want to be a better teacher.

Charlotte Danielson just may be the closest thing to an educational god. She's a brand, too, I admit. But she's a brand with which I am comfortable because I believe in her product, her framework for teaching. I do not say this lightly; it takes an awful lot for me to sign on to any standardized anything. Danielson's framework, though, doesn't point its finger at me and say, "Do this. Or this." It's not about methodology and rules as much as it is about what good professional practice looks like; it's not about the process of teaching as much as it is about opportunities for engagement and improvement. I like that. 

Our district work around Domain 3, Instruction, and specifically, questioning and discussion techniques, has been a catalyst for more post-PD conversation than I've ever experienced. Colleagues are talking to each other about what we already do, what we could do, what we might try, and, interestingly, how to meet the distinguished levels of performance in this domain. I'm fascinated that we are verbalizing with each other what we each individually know - that we want to be better. We all know it, we all think about it, but now, we are all talking about it. 

Last night at a dinner party, a colleague said, "Don't you think getting students to engage other students in discussion is virtually impossible?" This idea, that students become responsible to each other for ensuring that all (and Danielson means all) voices are heard within the context of rich conversation around a topic, is indeed hard to imagine. But I don't think it's impossible. And I want to prove it. 

I'd like to think I'm already proficient in this component of instruction. I'm really good at using wait time. I vary my questioning techniques so that many voices are heard. I encourage my students to think deeply and to take risks in discussions. I check for understanding, not just for completion of task. Next year, I am going to add a component for classroom discussion to my course expectations. I may create a professional goal around my questioning and discussion techniques. And I've already starting thinking about how to better foster the kind of engagement that Danielson is talking about: less me, more students. After all, I want to be a better teacher. 

Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite

The French had it right when they decided that "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity" should be the goals of their Republic. I believe that teachers, also, benefit when we interpret these ideals for ourselves.

I often lament the thing that most frustrates me about my particular job, and that is the inordinate amount of correcting I must do. Before I settled down today to grade quizzes, reader responses, active viewing charts, and unit projects, I weighed my teacher bag. 17.2 pounds. The equivalent of a 6-month-old baby. I should have bulging biceps by now (I don't). But that baby is mine, mine, mine. I chose to have that baby. So I really shouldn't complain too much, right? I really shouldn't so vociferously discourage those in teacher prep programs to avoid my discipline, right? I really should buckle down and just do it, right? Right. Same goes for complaining about my pay (we should get paid what others with our equivalent degrees get paid), or my too-early wake-up time (it's inhuman to rise at 4:45 a.m.), or having to dress professionally (I'd wear jeans and a t-shirt every day if I could). Sometimes it feels good to complain, and sometimes the complaining is necessary. But I also need to remind myself often that I. Chose. This.

Something that's always bothered me about this profession is the odd division between us - between elementary and secondary teachers, between disciplines, or between classroom teachers and specialized personnel. Somehow, we get to thinking that our jobs are the toughest, or someone else's is the the easiest. We assume that PE teachers have an "easy gig," English teachers claim they have the most correcting, elementary teachers "get to play all day," high school teachers "have so much prep time," specials teachers' classes don't count, and the list of (misguided) comparisons goes on. But I know that we all have requirements and standards and burdens and struggles that not only do we all not fully grasp, but that make each of our jobs difficult in different ways (and let's not forget that the rest of us didn't choose those other areas for a reason - most likely because we couldn't hack it there).

Most importantly, though, we are a union, some of us by formal definition and membership, but all of us by the labels of "teacher" and "educator." We are a  fraternity (you'll pardon the gender-specific word choice, I hope). Whether we teach private or public, young or old, struggling or gifted, core or specials, humanities or sciences, rural or urban, our common denominators are our passion, our devotion, our concern, our commitment, and our love for this work. We want to preserve our rights, fulfill our obligations, and do what is right and good for our students, always. There's no argument there. We can debate about reform, we can respectfully disagree about methodology and pedagogy, we can discuss the merits of merit pay. But when we do, we must remember that we are first brothers and sisters in this work.

And so, to all (other than high school English) teachers, I can say only this: I don't know exactly what it is you do, or even how you do it, but I know I could not do it. I do not have the desire, energy, talents, or skill set that is required of your work. I appreciate your dedication and your drive, and I am grateful to labor beside you and amongst you and call you my colleagues.

My Constellation of Stars

My favorite constellation is the Corona Borealis, a gorgeous crown that I wear on my right ankle, actually. Mostly I love the arc of this gathering of seven stars, but I also love the story behind its name. And lately, I've been thinking of some other stars, another constellation that surrounds me and gives me the same sense of comfort every time I think of it.

My other constellation is made up, of course (if you know me and metaphors), of people in my work. Sure, I could write about my own personal constellations (there are many stars, rest assured), but this blog is about teaching, and this constellation of which I write is comprised of the brightest with whom I interact on a daily basis, in my classroom, in my hallway, and in my school. And sure, I could write about my students, whom I value as creative, diligent, ambitious, and filled-to-the-brim with potential. But this blog is about inspiration, and these are the people who inspire me professionally.

My brightest star and I begin every school year by trading funny, upbeat greeting cards with encouraging words about how great it is to be back at work. Somewhere around January or February, those cards become tongue-in-cheek jaded reminders of the hard work we do and how we just might not make it to the end. By June, we exchange notes of gratitude for the year gone by and for each other. If I could only pick one colleague with whom to work, she would be it. She is the first I ask for advice about rubrics, expectations, and new assessment ideas. She is the first I complain to, the first I share news with, and the last I would question as to her judgment or decisions. Together we are superbly collaborative; in many ways, she is the academic yin to my yang.

My union yin I could not do without either, though. This star's brain works in tandem with mine and yet, often provides the opposing side, the other considerations, the whys to my why nots. To say I bounce ideas off of her is an understatement. What I really do is bounce them off her, bat them back at her, catch them, hold them, and then probably throw them back for another round of bouncing. It's a complex process, but with her input, I most definitely do a better job as a leader.

The special ed stars are, indeed, special. What a gift, to be able to work with the varied skill sets and abilities that present themselves in our classrooms and in the Learning Center. Yesterday, I sat with one at the beginning of the day and then at the end to hash out an assessment for a student based on several issues: the difficulty of the original assignment, the modifications I thought might work, the modifications she thought might work, the parents' needs, and of course, the student's needs. Whew.

Two stars are in the guidance suite way down at the other end of the building. One has been burning brightly for so many years in my constellation. She is my go-to for all things not academic. Calm in a crisis, and smart as hell. The other is a new addition, but one who gives me confidence in the next generation of education professionals. Great with students, great with parents, and defers to teachers about classroom issues. Brilliant.

And then there are all the rest. My administrator, who, as a curricular guide, is tops. The custodial staff, especially the morning guys, who care about the building, care about teachers, care about students, and care about education. The cafeteria worker who tells me all about her adventures with the local ARC program - this week it was a trip to the theater, where she saw a play. The ESP in my classroom whose foremost thought is how best to help a student demonstrate mastery and always balances student need with educational (and often, societal) expectations. My after-lunch mates, who make me laugh and make me smarter, frequently at the very same time. And frankly, everyone else, too: secretaries, teachers, paras, subs, staff members. I am grateful for their light always.

Perhaps, instead, my teaching world is a galaxy.

Ground Control

While the usual daily and weekly chaos is an amalgam of homework, correcting, extra help, tutoring, planning, prepping, intervening, finger-in-the-damming, and keeping up, this week's swirl is of a different nature. This week, I am Odysseus and my Charybdis consists of the educational-political state in my state, some panicky (but perhaps reasonably so) reactions to the Common Core State Standards, and several connected issues needing attention within my union. As as only a Homeric hero can, I am persevering and finding my way back home, to a place of peace and comfort. But it's been quite a journey.

My governor, my Democratic governor, my union-endorsed friend-to-education governor, turns out to be just the opposite. He's no friend now. The teachers in this state have an uphill battle against his so-called reforms; I'd rather call them mal-forms. Poor ideas, delivered poorly, with mal-intent. He says all teachers have to do to get tenure in this state is "show up for four years." I've tossed and turned at night over his words, over his plans, over my colleagues' discontent, over the future of my profession, over the outright hatred and misunderstanding shown by many in government and in the public toward educators and the work we do.

Bill Gates is on my list of worries, too. So is David Coleman. And even Nick Kristof, that Times reporter from war-torn countries whose work I've admired for years. Now Kristof is a self-proclaimed "education reformer." Coleman and Gates are behind (in front of?) the drive to implement the CCSS, which I'm struggling with on several levels. These are people white guys (remember the dominant domain) with no experience in the classroom who are espousing changes to the way things are done, it seems, for change's sake. I'm pretty darn confident that making change for change's sake won't change much, least of all the achievement gap. And at the local level, we're missing the conversation about what it is we're doing, when it is we're doing it, and why we're doing it.

And I've got to mobilize my membership. But like our own children, who become Mommy-deaf, and our students, who become teacher-deaf, I'm afraid my members have become union-deaf. So much has come down the political pike in the last few years, and so much negativity has been thrown at teachers, that we just want to close our doors and teach. Some of us will contact our legislators, but many (most?) of my colleagues are too beaten down to put up much of a fight. It's all they can do to do the job they chose because they love their content area and they love kids. There is something very wrong in education when those who guide our students are so maligned in the media and by our government; we are exhausted by the constant negative public sentiment. We are tuckered out. We are tired. We are spent.

I've given much thought to what I can do (and what I can't do) about all these problems. In the end, of course, it becomes about control: what I can control, what I choose to control, what I recognize as outside of my control, and how to react and respond to every situation. This week, I needed to spend my "home time" doing the equivalent of closing my door and teaching: I curled up in the fetal position and thought a lot. I also shared my concerns with my like-minded colleagues. Luckily for me, they took up the mantle and did some important work where I could not. And I wrote it all down, here and elsewhere. I've memorialized my frustrations and my worries, and in doing so, I've honored them, too. I've got some hard work ahead of me.

I have a strong and influential voice, and I must use it. To refrain from doing so would be a disservice to my colleagues. I will not devalue my beliefs by inaction. But I did need to break from the fray, to center myself, to reconnect with all that I know to be good and right, and to remember the way.

I've taken my protein pills and put my helmet on. I'm ready once again. Will it be an odyssey or an oddity?

Days Off

I have a day off today. Friends and family have asked what I'm going to do on my day off. As I write, it's 9:00 a.m., and I'm officially 1 hour and 45 minutes into my day off. And I've done nothing school-y yet, except check my email. That will change soon. I have a list.

Today I've got some correcting to do. Unlike my bestie, who had oodles of papers to grade this weekend and even posted a photo of the stack of Facebook, I got lucky this weekend. I only have quizzes and reader responses to assess. Only. Then I've got some reading homework to do. I've joined a regional book club on teaching English Language Learners, and we meet next week, so I need to do that reading and write a response for that. Sure, it's voluntary, but I'm participating for two reasons: 1) to better my understanding of ELLs and how they learn best, and 2) for formalizing my professional development. Gotta keep accruing those CEUs. Then I've got to write my syllabi for the next three weeks in my five classes. It'll be tricky because standardized testing begins in March and daily schedules are changed, classes are shortened and lengthened, and my classes will be meeting in other classrooms than mine. After that, I will set up my next round of parent video conferences, part of my professional goal for the year. After that, I need to write a bunch of emails and do some research for a project that the school counselor and I are collaborating on for the ninth-graders. After that, I will hopefully have time to work on my part of a conference workshop an out-of-district colleague and I are presenting at the end of March. Then hopefully I will get to work on a new assessment project for The Odyssey that I dreamed up last week.

After that, I might be able to do what a lot of other people do on days off: not-work-stuff.

Some people may never understand why teachers (and students) need breaks. They may argue that we are highly-paid for "having summers off." I don't want this to become a forum for debate, particularly. I've intentionally refrained from politicizing this blog. But days off are not that for us. Not during the school year, when weekends are extensions of weekdays. And so summer becomes the time when we can go correcting-free and daily-planning-free, at the very least. Of course, most of us also spend our summers long-term planning, taking classes and courses, attending workshops, writing curriculum, or completing professional reading. Some of us teach summer school, or work at summer camps, or run other summer programs. Some of us work full-time at second jobs. Some of us full-time parent our school-aged children.   All of us use the summer to think deeply about our work, to re-visit, review, and revise our lessons or methodologies, and to plan, plan, plan for next year.

So on this day off, my list is full. I think I'll squeeze in one more thing, though: think about summer. Check.

Teacher as Thief

It's true. We steal stuff. We take what belongs to others. We do it on the sly, we do it blatantly. Sometimes we announce it to others, sometimes even to the victim. Case in point: the other day, a colleague used the term "delayed gratification." "Oooh," I said, "I'm going to steal that for my next blog post." Done. Maybe a few of us ask. But most of us just steal.

Stealing used to be harder. Or, should I say, the goods were less accessible. They were abstract: ideas, methodologies, or lessons that our colleagues had already used or thought of, and if we were lucky, they existed in a material form, too. If we were lucky, there was a ditto.

With the advent of the internet, stealing became easier. It became a downright cakewalk. Need a lesson on  objective pronouns? Look it up. Need some help with classroom organization? Find it online. Need a good way to explain long division? Google it. And because what we teach and how we teach it is out there, for all to see and steal, our profession has changed.

The beauty of the teaching world being cracked open and on display online is this: no one is possessive about his ideas or lessons any longer. No one can claim her lessons as original, even, since there are probably some just like it in cyberspace. Three years ago, I created a unit loosely based on the Six Word Memoir project. It became a Six Word Summary project for our work with The Old Man and the Sea. Last year, my science colleagues organized a departmental field trip to my classroom during common planning time to see my students' work. They're now considering how to use the Six Word concept in their classes, and I've had several conversations with some of them as to how best implement the project in their work.

And so, we now encourage stealing in each other. We probably can't even call it stealing anymore. Now we should just call it sharing. I find that too boring, though, and I think my colleagues do, too. Aren't we boring enough already? Our vices are few, our morals are strong, our role modeling consistent. Let's still call it stealing. Makes us sound racy.

Real Maple Syrup

The farm was down the backroads of Maine and as my tiny car bumped along, I was getting a little nervous. Then from (literally) out of nowhere, a police cruiser came from the other direction. I pulled over onto the even-bumpier shoulder (read: ditch) to let him pass, and nervous became an understatement. Despite the cop's presence, I knew someone could dispose of a body out here and no one would ever know. But we were in pursuit of a year's supply of the best maple syrup I'd ever tasted, and I figured it was worth the risk; luckily, I have lived to tell the tale.

A student's success is just like that syrup. While we may not swing from telephone poles, or climb the exteriors of buildings, or dive for pearls, or mine coal, we take risks in our teaching lives that can be (dare I say?) equally as dangerous. We teachers know that we hold moments, careers, lifetimes in our hands every day, and the measures we take to protect and prepare and provide for our students can be risky. There's the pain we feel, more like a burn, when that faltering kid promises us he'll match our dedication to his academic success and then doesn't deliver, or worse, intentionally thwarts his progress. There's the anxious worry about the student who is turning inward and the subsequent angst when her parents are unresponsive to our concerns. There's the frustration of piles and piles of paperwork and lots and lots of hoops that may temporarily limit our ability to service a student adequately. And there are the sacrifices we make within our own families, sometimes to the chagrin of our parents, partners, or children, so that our students' lives are enriched. I've never heard a teacher say his job was easy. Never. But I've rarely seen a teacher give up, either.

Because the best of us don't leave it there. We forge onward, professionally and respectfully and hopefully, knowing our power, knowing the risks, and knowing our students' potential. We continue down the bumpy backroads because we know the sweetness of success. Always on the quest, we are eager, creative, determined, thoughtful, and courageous.

I wish I could bottle that.

Remembering My Place

On the last day of my first year of teaching where I still teach now, my department chair asked me to meet with him. He was a kind, soft-spoken, well-respected scholar and leader. I had no trepidation going into the meeting; I figured he wanted to bring some closure to my first year at the school, give me some sage advice, that sort of thing. And while I cannot remember his approach, I'm sure it was gentle. All I can remember are his critical words, his implied admonition for the future.

"There are some members of this department who are intimidated by you. They are offended that you make so many suggestions; you come across like you know everything about teaching English." Well. I know I was floored by the accusation, but I have no recollection of a response. I do remember making a beeline to my best friend's classroom, where I found him in tears over a similar experience with his department chair, and we wept together. This is what teaching here was going to be like? Were we that bad? We had killed ourselves that year, working so diligently to make every moment a meaningful one for our students. And the last thought before summer vacation would not be one of confident victory, but rather one of bitter sadness.

I learned a valuable lesson that day, of course. And it wasn't the one my chair wanted me to learn. I didn't learn to keep my mouth shut. I didn't learn to defer to the veteran members of my department. I didn't learn to hide my talents as a teacher. I learned to never, never do that to another rookie. My belief that newly-inducted teachers were skilled professionals never waned. And for me, now, veteran status doesn't mean anything, except that I am a veteran. I have years, but others often have great ideas. I have experience in the classroom, but others often have life experiences that help them understand their students. I've taught lots of lessons, been around a while, but those coming with recent educational training often have insights that complement my experience.

I hope that, upon my retirement day (in the very faraway future), the rookie teachers with whom I have had the utmost pleasure to work will be able to say that I valued them from the very start. That while I shared with them my lessons, I also considered theirs. That when they spoke, I listened, and I heard. That I built them up, supported them, encouraged them. I didn't get that from my department when I was a new teacher here. Times have changed. I've made sure of that.

Avoiding the Flu

I'm 20 years into my teaching career, and after the last batch of essays I corrected before winter break, I realized I might have finally figured out how to get them all done and not feel like I'd been run over by a Mack truck in the process. You may be thinking, "Don't we reserve that Mack truck metaphor for the flu?!" Or you may be thinking, "Hey, that's how I feel after correcting, too!!" Well, assessing papers, tests, quizzes, homework, projects, and labs is flu-like, or at least, it can be. Here's how I avoid catching the bug:

I remember that I am susceptible, and I prepare. Every fall, I line up with my colleagues at our local firehouse, roll up my sleeve, and receive my yearly flu shot. Likewise, I prepare for correcting, too; I schedule long-term assignments not only in line with the curriculum, but also in line with my life outside of school (this can be a bit tricky, and may require some creative manipulation - of what, I will let you determine). And then I reserve those weekends, or those evenings, for correcting. This is a part of teaching that the rest of the world doesn't see (unless you've got a teacher in your family), and a part that some of us seem to resent, but weekend and nightly work is how I validate my summers off. And this way, I can reserve long weekends for myself if I wish (or use that extra day for correcting, sometimes), or specific nights to be work-free, or times around holidays left open for celebration. I try not to be caught unawares, but rather girded for the long haul.

I have seen the enemy, and it is I. During flu season, I wash my hands frequently and use the hand sanitizer I keep on my desk. I stay rested, take my vitamins (I swear they help), and steer clear of sneezers and coughers as much as possible. When I know I have correcting to do, I try to do the same - I recognize what will bring me down, and I avoid the pitfalls. To avoid procrastination (a paradox of sorts), I do some math (uh oh) and create a written schedule: by noon, then by 3:00 pm, then by dinner, I will have corrected x number of papers. I look at it frequently (often, admittedly, to double- or triple-check that I divided correctly). To avoid the achy frustration that comes after the fifth essay in a row isn't formatted properly, I find the essays that are, and I correct one or two of those. And to avoid the spiky fever of overwork, I set up a reward system: after x number of essays, I will take a walk, or eat my lunch, or read this or listen to this.

And when I'm done, I feel this incredible surge of energy, sort of like how I feel when I get through another week or month without getting what's going around. I might even praise myself out loud, or high-five myself in the mirror, or dance around a bit. It's a combination of oh-thank-goodness and damn-I'm-good. There's a heavy emphasis on relief, with some wood-knocking for future endeavors; I wouldn't want to be over-confident, ever. That's exactly when I'll get run over by that Mack truck, which I'm trying to avoid... like the plague.