brian

A dozen years at MƒA

This month, I had the opportunity to apply for renewal of my MƒA Master Teacher fellowship. It has been a staggering twelve years(!) since I was awarded my first fellowship, and what has followed since has been nothing short of extraordinary.

Being an MƒA teacher has been one of the greatest privileges of my professional life. I hold it in high regard. It has allowed me to step into leadership roles that have defined (and redefined) who I am as a teacher. It has affirmed and validated me. It has made space for my ideas and offered me community when I had none. MƒA continually fills me with a sense of regeneration and growth.

More than anything else, however, MƒA has trusted me. In education, trust isn’t easy to find. The stakes are too high for teachers to be given the reins with no strings attached. There are so many changing faces and titles that being a teacher forces you to rebuild relationships often. Not with MƒA. Whether leading a PD, advocating for them on a podcast, or designing a summer conference, the folks at MƒA have never wavered in their belief in me. They continually make me feel like I am worth it.

I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t sometimes take generosity MƒA for granted. MƒA is an endless sea of resources, so it’s easy to take and take often. The debt I owe the organization is far too large to repay throughout my career, and remembering to give back can be tricky. With or without a renewal fellowship, I hope the organization feels I have contributed to the community during my tenure as a Master Teacher. For all I have gained, it’s the least I can do. ∞

Finding a way forward

I approached them in the middle of class and said, “I’ve lost you.” Though there were 23 other students around us, the moment was bleak. It was an admission of self-defeat. I felt helpless.

For weeks, I’ve observed them go through the motions. Other than their joyous reunion each morning with friends, their body language tells me they have little interest in learning. While everyone snakes their way through the problems on the whiteboards, their attention wanders. They are alert but politely disengaged.

After school, a colleague asked me what I was going to do. How do I move forward with a student who has let go?

I didn’t have a good answer, but I knew I couldn’t leave them behind. Having taught them last year, the only way forward is with them.

The next day, with my colleague’s question echoing in my head, I went to the student’s friends. After class, I explained my disappointment and constructed a plea for their help in the middle of the hallway. I didn’t know what else I could do. I needed to keep this student on our moving train.

The friends promised to do their part to support me and keep the student engaged. I was humbled by their compassion. I got the feeling these students saw their teacher—the one who always had the answers—with a problem he couldn’t solve.

Finding a way forward with this student feels symbolic. Of course, the focus is on their continued learning of mathematics, but it’s also so much more. It’s about evoking a feeling that our class can be more than a daily meet-up with friends. It’s about being a senior and finding meaning at a time when there is little to be found. It’s about tending to a student and offering them the respect they have earned.

In the months ahead, I may have to abandon my hopes of repairing their relationship with my curriculum. Despite my efforts and those of their friends, their relationship with mathematics — and our relationship — may become something I’m not proud of. As winter turns into spring and graduation draws near, we may go through the motions as teacher and student.

If that is the case, I need to resist bitterness. Swept over with helplessness and self-defeat, I can still greet them warmly, ask about their day, and find ways to share a smile. I can throw support at their future plans and help them find productive ways to use class time, while we still have it. While Algebra 2 may not be a priority for them anymore, I can still save a seat for them on our train each day. I will need to find new ways to serve them that exist outside of my curriculum map and lesson plans.

This is the way forward.

Grading Time

How many hours do you spend grading during the weekend?

A colleague recently asked me that question. When he did, I asked him — no lie — three times to confirm the word “weekend” in his question. I emphasized the letters “E-N-D” each time to ensure I heard him right. The question threw me for a loop. It was asked with the assumption that spending hours (plural) on the weekend grading is the norm. This is problematic.

His question made me think once again about how teachers balance the time we spend grading with our need to gauge student learning and provide feedback. Grading large amounts of student work doesn’t correlate to understanding what students know or offering meaningful feedback. Similarly, too little grading produces gaps in how well I perceive student learning and offers infrequent opportunities for feedback. Striking the right amount of each can be tricky, especially during the first few years of teaching.

Establishing a good balance in grading practices means more than having a weekend not filled up with marking papers — although that is a goal in and of itself. It also means my assessment strategies are targeted, efficient, actionable, and yes, imperfect. I will never be able to access everything a student is thinking. Finding a reasonable compromise is necessary. It means I can dedicate more time to reacting to students’ thinking because I spend less time discovering it. This is no easy task, but I think it should be a goal for every teacher.

A guest visit, a disservice

Today, I had a visitor. It was someone from the superintendent’s office. I didn’t do anything different with my classes than I normally would, but the school put on the typical dog and pony show. There were freshly minted bulletin boards and colleagues wearing ties who otherwise wouldn’t have.

Because my school usually chooses the teachers that are observed, I’ve come to view a visit to my room as a nod to my teaching. I must be doing something right for them to choose my room, right? Remembering this keeps me from feeling too much pressure or buying into the masquerade.

When he entered, my students were immersed in their whiteboards, tackling average rate of change. They were killing it. I assessed their work from the center of the room and shifted students to different groups based on my observations. With each passing minute, the students grew more confident. Their work was evidence.

A few minutes into his stay, my esteemed guest struck up a conversation with me. He was curious about my assessment tactics. He said he had been in other classes using vertical whiteboards and wanted to hear my take. Given all the activity around the room, how did I know what “level” each student was at during at any given moment? How did I promote productive struggle? How did I mitigate it? How did this lesson fit into my bigger goals for students?

I explained how, for this lesson, my assessment relied on my active observations of students. I needed to fully attend to student thinking, as demonstrated on their whiteboards, to position and re-position my students to be successful. I also mentioned that my students have an exam tomorrow, and this lesson served as their review. Everytime I answered one of his questions, he had another ready. After a while, I grew frustrated.

I had no problem with him wanting to talk to me about the lesson. A clarifying question here or there never hurt anyone. This is natural.

My issue is that he peppered me with question after question while I was trying to do the thing he was asking me about: assess. Our conversation slowed my momentum in gauging student understanding, prohibited me from putting them a position to help each other, and subtracted from my students’ learning. I respectfully said this to him at some point, around the 5-minute mark of our exchange. I couldn’t resist because he didn’t look like he was prepared to slow down his inquires.

He politely disengaged with me and allowed me to play catch up with all that happened on the whiteboards. Having been plucked out of my flow state, I was in disarray. A few measly minutes remained in class.

Despite his good intentions, he did my students a disservice. He stole precious minutes away from their teacher who was optimizing unit review, all to satisfy his needs. On the surface, because I wasn’t leading a class discussion or demonstration, it may have appeared that I had time to explore his wonderings. I didn’t. My assessment was active and ongoing, each passing moment strategically stacked on the previous.

Given his position, expertise, and vast experience in moments like this, I would have expected him to notice what I was doing and recognize my need to be fully present with my students. Of all people, he should have known to respect the process. To cure his curiosity about my decision-making, connecting with me after class would have been a better approach.