An Open Letter to Bobby McFerrin

Dear Mr. McFerrin -

I know that you do not like to be measured by your 1988 hit "Don't Worry, Be Happy." I know you are so much more than that song; in fact, I have some of your ingenious and Grammy-winning work on my iPod. You are creative, and crafty, and fascinating as all get-out. So I must apologize, then, for bringing it up.

But truly, as trite and over-simplistic as it sounds, as overdone as it was (is?), the sentiment in that song wraps up exactly how I'm feeling so far this school year. Somehow, this is a new approach for me. I've always striven to keep perspective, of course, but now I am just letting things be. This is not to say that I am allowing things to happen to me. I am still making things happen. But I am seeing everything - the five goals, especially - as all they are: things. Things that will get done. Things that will happen. Things that matter, yes, okay, but that matter not so much as to worry about them. I'd much rather "worry" about old friends and colleagues battling much bigger things. I'd much rather "worry" about women's rights, and the environment, and the economy. And I'm not sure that "worry" is even the right word, after all.

Here's the question I've been asking myself lately: "What will I think of this worrisome thing in five hours? Five months? Five years?" At the end of that longitudinal Worry Scale, only loved ones and future generations and the Earth make it to five years and beyond. Not my goals for 2012-13. Not my upcoming observations and evaluations. These things are important, certainly. Maybe even really important, as they will inform my work this year and next. I want to be a better teacher and I want my students to do well - that's a given, right? I'm not sure how worrying fits into that plan. Doing does. Accepting does. Trying does. Learning does. Growing does.

Bobby, I'm taking your rhyme-y words to heart these days: "In every life we have some trouble. When you worry, you make it double." Or quintuple. So I'm putting a smile on my face, as you suggested. I won't be bringing anybody down anytime soon.

Thanks for the reminder, sir.

What Was I Afraid Of?

This Saturday morning, as I woke up thinking of a new student I have who struggles with a medical condition that requires some monitoring, my mind immediately went from how I can best help in the classroom, to how good it is to be informed firsthand, to how I now practically expect parents to tell me this stuff, to how grateful I am for email, to how I once was utterly and completely opposed to emailing with parents. While the topics jumped about, so did my emotions upon the final revelation. I was at once a bit embarrassed, then extraordinarily proud of my evolution.

That word, evolution, got a lot of play this year, as some powerful political and religious and civil rights leaders moved their positions on marriage equality. Critics pointed to the election year or social pressures as motivating factors in the changes, but for me, the bottom line was not how or why change occurred, but that it occurred. And I can apply that same philosophy to my own evolution(s), too: it's more important that I change and grow over time, not why I do or how it happens.

Interestingly, though, I realized that for me (and perhaps for many, many others), evolution almost always comes in fits and starts. I deny, refuse, oppose. I worry, fret, and rant. I slowly, slowly consider a theoretical application of the change. I research. I might even refute the validity of the evolution once more. Then, voila: I open the throttle and floor it. I guess you could say I'm a zero-to-sixty kind of evolutionist.

A short list reveals the recent educational changes I've at first debunked, poo-pooed, or just outright sworn I'd never support...and then gotten on the bandwagon about; besides the emailing (it's my preferred method of parental communication now), there's our district's BYOD policy (so far, so good this year), and flipping the classroom (a colleague is trying it this year and I'm a wee bit envious). And when it comes to my life outside of school, well, let's just say Evolution is my middle name (I'm thinking of the waistlines of jeans, child-rearing, and vegetarianism, just to name a very few areas in which I've evolved through the years).

I'm also thinking this morning of a dear friend who, having suffered a devastating loss this summer, is evolving by way of both a sloughing off and a realignment. By honoring her strength and self-preservation, I am also recognizing my own need for continual evolution and moving always forward. Whether educationally or personally, change is not only good, it is necessary. And sometimes, it's just plain fun.

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....

Threes and Sevens

For all my math deficiencies, I love numbers. Not adding them, or multiplying them, or measuring them, but looking at them, thinking of them, wondering about them. They're pretty fascinating, after all. And culturally, numbers figure in our daily lives very deeply.

Since middle school, I've been curious about how easily people subscribe to the adage that things happen in threes. Interestingly, while probably almost everything could be counted this way, we tend to focus on the "bad" things in terms of the threes; we begin the count after the second bad thing and wait for the third to show itself.  Then we can say (to ourselves, mostly), "See, three bad things," thus reinforcing the belief system. Three injuries, three funerals, three losses, three failures. Logically, we know these things happen independently of each other and are not connected to each other in any way: there is one bad thing, and there are way more than three bad things. But by ceasing the count at three, we attempt to limit our sadness, our grief, our frustration. And that's not a bad thing.

And then there's the number seven. If Gene Rayburn asked you to match Richard Dawson's answer to this puzzle, "________ Seven," you'd probably guess "Lucky," and probably correctly. Sure, there are those pesky Seven Deadly Sins, but more often than not, we think of seven as a lucky number. In terms of "good" things happening to us or around us, we don't count, though. And if we did add up the positives, it's likely we'd stop long before seven. It'd be hard to remember them all, despite George Miller's assertion that we could. But that's exactly what I propose we do.

I'm going to do an experiment. Over the course of a day, or days perhaps, and ultimately, throughout the school year and beyond, I'm going to count both the threes and the sevens. When I'm confronted with any combination of three bad things (my own complaints, others' problems, union conflicts, personal or professional issues), I will more-than-double that number with seven good things. I'll count out solutions, blessings, answers... the good things. Whether I'm struggling internally, or grappling with something (or someone) at work, or just generally saddened by the state of affairs nationally or globally, I will try to balance (over-balance, really) the bad stuff with some good stuff.

In the end, of course, the only number that really matters is one. And it's that one that I'm looking to preserve, treat well, and keep in balance. By counting my threes and sevens, I hope to remind myself of what's important, to focus on the positives, and to be always moving forward. Join me on the journey.

Stop Complaining

After a hiatus of nearly two months, I've finally returned to this blog. I use the term "hiatus" pretty loosely, seeing as how my absence hasn't been any kind of a hiatus at all (summer might bring the true hiatus), but instead a steady stream of end-of-school responsibilities in May and June that became practically unmanageable.

But not really. Not really unmanageable. Typical. Usual. To be expected. And I handled them all relatively well: the PPTs, the CPTs, the last essays, the union meetings, the exams - creation, modification, correction, the retirement parties, the elections, the classroom cleaning, the meetings about next year's batch, the graduation... and the housekeeping, the car maintenance, the grocery shopping and meal preparation, the laundry, too....

I made a conscious decision, on a daily basis, to forego writing here. Part of me struggled with the loss of one laptop, the acquisition of a borrowed another, the desktop sitting idly by (but all the way downstairs), and the iPad I was lent. I hemmed and hawed about the device on which I would write, until it was time for bed and I hadn't written a thing (in retrospect, pathetic). Part of me wondered what, if anything, I could still say about teaching, and the rest of me worried about what it meant that the other part of me was wondering about that (in retrospect, even more pathetic). A whole lot of me just knew I couldn't do it all, and so I didn't (in retrospect, totally smart).

When I started this blog I thought big, grandiose even. Although I formally planned to write only on the weekends, internally I wanted to top that and write three or four times a week. That's easier said and done when daylight only lasts until 4:00 p.m., I guess. And I secretly hoped for a readership numbering in the hundreds, with fans the country over. Clearly I ignored the need to market the blog in order to achieve this goal and also forgot that, simply put, teachers. are. busy.

But this week feels like time is once again on my side. And I'm remembering my perspective and bringing forcing into focus my good fortune, my real reasons for writing, and all the good things about teaching and learning that I want to memorialize here.

This morning I drove with a colleague to a meeting about a new evaluation system that our district will be piloting next year. We talked shop on the way over. And on the way back. Shop talk, and lots of it. One week out of school (excluding the three days of summer curriculum work already completed and the one more to get through), and there we were, already talking about next year, making plans to improve how we service our students, sharing best practices, and neither of us minded. Really, we were both pretty darned excited.

And that's why I'm back, really. I'm excited again. Not just going through the paces, but really and truly excited, and it isn't even July yet. Hiatus schmiatus - it's going to be a great summer!!

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.

Balancing Acts

This has been quite a week of highs and lows, starts and stops, rights and wrongs. These kinds of weeks (or months) are the hardest to adapt to, but sometimes also the most rewarding (at least that's what I keep telling myself). In this career, as perhaps in many others, keeping a balance is paramount to another goal, keeping perspective. It's necessary to not only understand, accept, and honor the reasons why things happen the way they do and their relationship to everything else occurring around us, but to work diligently to place them in balance with everything else, too.

If I had a dime for every time I thought this week, "This is why I love my job" after having thought "I just want to move to Maine and sell fleece pants at Reny's," I'd have quite a few dimes. I like best when the former follows the latter naturally, but I will readily admit, sometimes I must force my thinking into balance. When this happens, though, the balancing act seems awkwardly unbalanced; this was one of those weeks. It took an entire group of eager learners to balance the one cranky student from an earlier class. It took several supportive emails of appreciation for my union work to balance the one or two critical missives I received. It took a lunchtime of laughter and debate about the word "portmanteau" to balance the one run-in with an administrator. Looking forward, it's going to take something pretty remarkable to balance the grading odyssey on which I am to depart tomorrow morning.

Why such an unbalanced balancing? By our natures, we teachers are quick to take responsibility for the negatives and credit others for the positives. We give to others readily, but deny ourselves frequently. We strive to combat misguided and offensive criticism by working harder and harder and harder still. We tend to operate from a place of guilt, having adapted to, or even adopted, the repeated messages, explicit or implied, of our incompetence. In short, we're too nice (except to ourselves), too easy (except on ourselves), too accommodating (except toward ourselves).

Ultimately, though, I'm okay with it. I can say with honesty that I'm not sure I'd want it any other way; of course, I also don't think it could really ever be any other way. But I'll always strive for the balance, create it when I have to, and recognize its occasional unbalanced-ness. Because, like the indomitable Popeye, "I yam what I yam."

The Difficult Ones

We have difficult days, sometimes even difficult weeks, and hopefully few difficult months or years (though I know teachers who've had just that). We have difficult class or course assignments, the ones in which group chemistry might be off, or for which the prep work is overwhelming and yields little satisfaction. We have difficult students. For so many reasons, at varying times, and all, at some level, understandable. We want to help these kids. We want to help them learn, we want to help them heal, we want to help them grow. It is for them that we often stay after school (or go there early), revise our approach, revise our plans, revise our expectations, and collaborate, question, and keep on keepin' on.

And then there are the parents. Our first, and most important, partners in education. Our allies. Or not. And when they are not, the struggle can become more than difficult to bear. To me, difficulty with a parent feels like a betrayal. It feels like an outright exclamation of the parent's (or parents') lack of faith in my intelligence, experience, and concern: I DON'T BELIEVE YOU! YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING! YOU ARE WRONG! This distrust is the most uncomfortable. We can take it from kids (they are still learning, we say), we can take it from society at large (it's always been an uphill battle, we say), but when it comes from parents, it cuts too close to the bone. It's personal, and so difficult to get our heads around. Even more difficult to release.

But release it we must, as logic dictates. Often, we can explain the behaviors as "apple-tree," or a reflection of a parent's own educational experiences, or as a knee-jerk response to a misrepresented issue. That's where we can start to release the difficulty. I employ other tactics, too, and this week I had to use them all. First, I gave myself 24 hours to get over it. This is a strategy I use for almost every hurt I experience; it allows me the time to grieve, the freedom to move forward, and most importantly, perspective. Then, I chose five parents to contact with the good news that their children were achieving, or were showing improvement, or were helpful and pleasant. I didn't choose stars; their parents hear how great their kids are. I chose the middlers. I chose parents of kids who do what they are expected to do, the way they are expected to do it, when they are expected to do it. Simple. And soon enough I begin to feel better about my work, my students, and their parents. This week it took one more step to come around all the way. I treated myself, on a very personal level. Whether a special dinner (probably including some comfort food), a spa treatment, a walk in the woods or on the beach, a shopping spree, an intense workout, or time alone (or with a supportive pal), the gift-to-self is a sure-fire way to separate the professional struggle from the personal pain. For me, that hour plus (and my verbal acknowledgment of its purpose to those around me) is both reinvigorating and reaffirming.

I work hard, I know a lot, I have faith in my students and think always of their success. I teach with compassion and respect, I believe in equity and parity, and always I am grateful to be supported by parents who do understand what I do, how I do it, and why. There will be those who will not buy in, those difficult ones. That's okay. Even if they don't have faith in me, I do.

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.

Delayed Gratification

In few professions besides education is the gratification for a job well done so delayed. Firefighters? They rescue and extinguish. Chefs? Their customers eat and praise. Project managers? The client and the boss are pleased. Truckers? Product is delivered. Pilots? Passengers delivered. Athletes? Race, game, match won (or at least done).

Teachers? Teeth pulling, hair pulling, pushing kids, pushing buttons. We grunt and groan through our jobs sometimes, coaxing and encouraging and suggesting. Then we watch and wait. And watch some more, and wait some more. Sure, we might see results on a unit assessment, or on an essay, or at the marking period's end. In a perfect world, these are the appropriate indicators of success, where benchmarks are measured and noted. But for so many of our students, and hence, so many of us, these moments are few and far between, and rarely are they recognized as highly meaningful.

I mean not to diminish results based on standards. They matter (and will soon matter even more). But for me, the true measures are not measurable. And while some are instant (the scribbled notes of appreciation on my board, the kid asking me if I was feeling better today), the best ones come later... sometimes much, much later.

Twenty years ago I watched a student graduate who'd come to school as a freshman completely disinterested in anything academic. Actually, he was disinterested in anything, period. Except maybe lacrosse. But even his fervent passion and extraordinary skills in that sport were no match for the malaise that governed his every day. Somewhere between that first year and his last, he grew to at least be responsive to the gifts of time, encouragement, knowledge, and compassion that his teachers and coaches shared so readily with him.

Today, I sat in the audience and listened to this same former student share his story with current students at his alma mater. I was a guest, and a surprise guest at that. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I knew that my pride would carry me through the experience. And while he spoke - of his struggles, of his growth, and of his deep appreciation for what we teachers had done for him - I knew this would become a moment that I would replay in my mind for a good long while. He was gracious and understanding, inclusive and grateful. He noted that he'd been a "handful" and then he thanked, by name, several of us who'd been there through it all. What a joy to hear it. What a joy.

Moments like today's carry us through the weeks and months we may go without a moment like today's. I have been lucky to have many such moments in my career - former students who write to say they've become teachers because I have inspired them, parents whose end-of-year appreciative comments and emails recognize my influence in their child's growth, administrators who praise my work in conversations and evaluations, colleagues who recognize the time and energy I dedicate to them as their union president.

This week I scored in every category. It was a very good week. And since it might have to suffice for a while, I'm going to relish it. I might even take Monday off.

Keeping Up with the Joneses, Teacher-Style

If you're around 40 years old, you probably sometimes feel that the world is swirling around you, neither fast nor slowly, but enough so that it's hard to keep up. If you're 55+, you might have already given up on that swirl, determined that you cannot learn the new stuff fast enough, uncomfortable with the pace of change. If you're in your 20s or 30s, you will, someday, feel the swirl. I guarantee it.

In the teaching world, the swirl contains everything our students, do, say, watch, listen to, read, participate in, eat, buy, wear, and feel passionately about. As younger teachers, we are close enough to the vortex, having just come out of it (or maybe not even yet), so that we can grasp what's there and ingest it ourselves. In our most veteran years, many of us see it all off in the distance, like a tornado barreling about, feeling that if it slams into us, we're doomed. We can't even come close to focusing on all that's there, never mind latching onto some of it. That's why those middle years are so critical, for it is then that we must muster up the courage to go there, into the swirl, and stay long enough to understand, and perhaps, to engage.

So what are the Joneses up to these days? They're tweeting. They're into parkour, they're reading The Hunger Games (on their Kindle Fires), they're listening to Nicki Minaj or Skrillex or something obscure, they're wearing Boobie bracelets (and they're suing school districts that say they can't). They're following Tavi. They don't use cash. They're drinking Starbucks and they're still eating their pizza with ranch. And as soon as I wrote all that, or before it even, it's already old. But hey, I'm old.

I do, however, try. And that's what's important here. If we are to keep up with our students' lives, both in and out of school, and understand what's in their heads and on their to-do or wish lists, we must face the swirl, step into that rush of newness, and try some of it out. I know that it sometimes feels uncomfortable when you first approach it, but there's no requirement for loving it, for taking it up, or even for getting it. We must, though, get that they get it. And that should be enough.

So, to those already testing the swirl's waters, bravo. Don't lose sight of what's on the horizon, even as your vision diminishes. To the rest of you, before it's too late, surf, Stumble, pin, or download. Or even better, ask a Jones kid what's new. Then check it out.

Evolution

In the twenty years I've been in education, nothing's been more consistent than change. I suspect that's been true all along; it was for my retired colleagues and it will be for those just entering the field. So, why then, are so many of us so frightened by change, when it surrounds us daily? Oh. Maybe that's why. It surrounds us daily.

I like to think that there are few jobs in which change happens as frequently and as systematically as in education. I'll admit it; I like that recognizing change, adjusting to change, and embracing change is not only good for us, but expected of us. I know I sometimes wear my own affinity for change like a badge: Look at me!! See the change swirling about? Watch me adapt!! And, sometimes, I know the change itself is like a midway sideshow at a sleazy circus, too: Step right up!! See the change swallow this teacher and his bookbag whole!! And let me issue the most important caveat right here: in educational philosophy, change simply for change's sake is not good. Not. Good. At. All. 

But when kids change, or when educational change follows cultural change, it's okay. It really is okay. It is normal, and right, and while you may not think it good, it is normal, and right. Texting is not the end of face-to-face communication (it's just called "having a face-to-face" now). Bumping and grinding is just the way teenagers dance (our "bumping" was once met with raised eyebrows, too). Ensuring that every kid has the chance to succeed is not an outlandish expectation (it's definitely right and good). These changes do not portend the end of civility, or the destruction of community, or the loss of everything that's come before. They are just changes. And like us, and our parents, and their parents before them, our kids will become functioning citizens of this earth: caring and compassionate, smart and skilled, determined and diligent. They will invent, sell, defend, educate, heal, build, support, design, entertain, and serve. Just like us. 

Ten years ago, after a particularly engaging classroom discussion, I wrote my philosophy about change on my blackboard (it really was a blackboard). In big, capital letters, I wrote, "LIFE IS CHANGE." Deep, right? I caught a lot of flak from my students that year, a collectively bright, yet somewhat jaded (post 9/11) group of juniors in my American Literature class. For them, the shine was already off the apple a bit, and I think they were convinced that they could remain just as they were and the world would, or perhaps should, remain just as it was. Ah, youth. Today, I'm confident that they've evolved as the world around them has, and I can only hope that they might embrace my philosophy with a little more faith and a little less playful derision than they displayed in 2002. 

Like the ubiquitous sh*t that happens, change happens, too. When it feels uncomfortable, it's time to ask ourselves why, time to broaden our understanding of ourselves and our world, time to get our heads around whatever is evolving - yes, for our students, but mostly, for ourselves. We may think it's the end of the world as we know it, but we can still feel fine. 

Football for Teachers

1st and 10: How we feel at the beginning of each school year: ready to drive down the field.
Audible: Asking that child to stop talking and listen. To sit down and participate in the lesson. To stop doodling and get out her notebook.
Blitz: A snow day that cancels a field trip. A fire drill that interrupts an exam. Vomit. 
Controlling the clock: Controlling the clock. And are we ever good at it.
Double coverage: A parent and an administrator.
End zone: 3:00 pm. Or Friday. Or June. Or graduation.
Eye-black: What we see on Monday mornings after a weekend of prepping and correcting.
Fumble: When a lesson slips out of our hands.
Goal line: Where we get to if we're SMART.
Halftime show: The cafeteria.
Interception: When that assessment only demonstrates that our kids didn't get it this time.
Kickoff: District convocation. See the best speaker at a district convocation - ever - here. 
Live ball: A lesson in play.
Loose ball: A lesson that could fly or die.
Neutral zone: The four minutes between the bell signifying the start of school and the bell signifying the start of first period.
Offending team: The kid who passes gas.
Personal foul: Tripping over a backpack.
Playoffs: The last weeks of school.
Recovery: When we fumble the first time with a lesson and have to do it over a different way.
Scrambling: Winging it. Yeah, we have to do it sometimes (see Recovery).
Third and long: How we feel on standardized testing days.
Touchdown: Any lesson that works.
Wild Card: The tough kid who keeps you on your toes. When he makes it to the playoffs, you are ecstatic.

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.

Pilgrimage

According to Webster's Umpteenth International Dictionary, "pilgrimage" is defined as... no, no, just kidding. But I've thought a lot about this word over the past few days, mainly because of the new Annie Leibovitz exhibit of the same name, and the fascinating story of what compelled her to make her own pilgrimage around this great country and beyond.

As I stood in the gallery and viewed the provocative images of both American landscapes and iconic authors', entertainers', and intellectuals' treasured belongings, I couldn't help but compare the photographer's journey to the ones we make as educators, as learners, and even as former students ourselves.  Why are we drawn to drive by, and sometimes to visit, our old schools: high schools, junior highs, elementary schools, often pointing out to our companions "that's my old school" or recounting our favorite or painful or humorous memories made there? Why do we often return to the places where we learned about our professional lives: where we student taught, where we studied, where we attended a great weekend conference? And why do we labor to make our classrooms the valued places that our students need (whether they know it now or not) and come back to, day after day (and sometimes even after they leave us, and the next year, and the next, and ten years later)?

Because we believe in the sacred. We believe that what molds us, makes us, are those moments of value and deep meaning that happen in the educational process. We hold tight to this belief, and infuse our work with it. We invite our students on the journey, both physical and metaphorical, to the places that we share so willingly, to the places to which we wish to return, to the places of wonder and learning and growth.

We make our pilgrimages so that our students can embark on theirs.

Potato Pave

There may be more intricate recipes than Thomas Keller's for Potato Pave in Ad Hoc at Home, but since I am a potato fan and I hang around with a masonry fan (the French "pave" = cobblestone or paving stone), this dish seemed just right for a New Year's Eve celebration. Look at the glorious symmetry, achieved by the construction of foil-covered cardboard frames and the use of several measuring implements! See the delicate layering of potato on potato on potato, separated only by butter and cream! Imagine a potato dish worth waiting for after two hours of baking, cooling to room temperature, refrigerating for a day (or two), then skillet browning oh-so-perfectly!

Sometimes the teaching life feels just like this recipe: complex, multi-stepped, and requiring much patience. Slowly, and day-by-day, we piece together our plans and programs for our students. We labor over lessons. We measure, then measure again. We consult our guides and our guidebooks, checking our accuracy and adopting suggestions. We take what we know to be the right and good approach. We wait.

And then, we've got our finished product, sort of. Kids aren't ever really finished (and to think, some people would like us to be measured by just one snapshot of our students). Neither, I suppose, is this potato recipe. It was good. It was tasty. It wasn't stunning or remarkable, like I wanted it to be. Shortly after we ate, the chefs were intellectually dissecting the process, the ingredients, and their skills, which is just what we do, too, when the outcome isn't quite what we'd hoped for. But it's that hope that drives us to improve, to alter, to adjust, so that we can bring our students that much closer to stunning and remarkable, that much sooner. It's a recipe that works.

One Word

In an email conversation with a parent this week, she asked me when I sleep. I responded "in class." I hope she appreciated my humor as much as I appreciated her respect for all the ways in which I am available to students. These days, I don't lack "sleep" as I used to. Part of that is probably because I am no longer parenting school-age children; that (or elder-care or a second job) is extraordinarily time-consuming and stress-inducing. But conversely, when I was parenting my daughters, there wasn't NCLB or RTTT or SRBI or CCSS. And we all know how time-consuming and stress-producing these AAEs (Annoying Acronyms of Expectations) can be. So why, or how, is it somehow easier now?

The uncomplicated answer is one word: perspective. In all that I do, in everything I teach, at every meeting, in all my planning, my mantra is, always, perspective. Personally and professionally, perspective has saved me from spiraling into panic. Perspective has halted any implosion from heaped-on responsibility. Perspective has urged me to seek the smooth, the calm, the sensible, and yes, the easy. In what other profession would the expectation not be to find easier ways to approach tasks? Yet in teaching, we nearly set ourselves up to take the difficult path, we often create more, or harder, work for ourselves, and sometimes we even forget that we are humans, not superheroes.

This week, I repeated my mantra frequently. Perspective. While revising midterm exams to fit the new schedule (shortened, these will be easier to grade), while writing modified exams (how much is enough to show mastery?), while correcting said exams (average scores are higher than my 4-year average). While creating interventions (this is about student needs, not mine). While tutoring (progress). While setting up parent video conferences (I don't like the telephone). While speaking to the faculty about our upcoming accreditation (be quick, precise, and thorough). While attending a Board of Education meeting (proactive collaboration is always better than reactive contention), while attending a regional union meeting (it's not about the politics for me), while registering for an on-going book club on ELLs at my RESC (an interesting way to acquire more knowledge and strategies).

Perspective allows me the freedom to adapt. In our rapidly changing educational world, adaptation is key. If  we cannot, or will not, address changes in curricula, standards, responsibilities, requirements, or roles, we cannot expect to be recognized as the professionals we are. Don't misunderstand me; I mean not to imply that we should be pushovers or doormats. I mean that, given our rights and within the bounds of what is right and good in education, we mustn't remain stagnant, we mustn't be inflexible. We must adapt. And we should, for our own sakes, adapt with grace and good humor and perspective, knowing that what we do in the classroom, ultimately and always, is the most important work.