teachers – lazy 0ch0

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.

66%

When I think about most teachers I know — primarily those who I’ve met at the two schools I’ve taught at and through MƒA — one thing is undeniable: These people love their jobs. They have a passion for improving and serving students in increasingly unique ways. They move with compassion and care. They make decisions to advance students far beyond their knowledge of content.

Besides, what dedicated teacher wouldn’t love teaching? The magic that’s generated when you connect with a young person and help them grow is flat-out addicting. The job is hard and the bureaucracy can be taxing, but my work with students is a puzzle that keeps me young. It keeps me searching for answers that give my life meaning. It’s the type of work that begins and ends with love. Because I feel this way, it’s not hard to identify when other people do too.

All this was on my mind when I asked a colleague last week, “In your experience, how many teachers don’t love their jobs?” I hadn’t given much thought to the question until I said it aloud that day. What he said blew my mind: “I think 2 out of every 3 teachers do not love what they do.”

My mouth flew open. I was borderline offended. 66%? HOW? How could such an astounding number of teachers not love working with young people in the context of education? How could he make such an assumption? Did he not understand the ramifications?

In that moment, with these questions pushing their way out of my mouth, something changed within me.

I was scared.

If his hypothesis were true, it means that each day 66% of students are situated with a teacher who doesn’t lead with love. It means that 66% of classrooms are places where students and teachers simply show up, as if teachers and students are variables to insert into a formula for learning. It means that 66% of teachers teach exclusively with their heads and not their hearts.

This gives me pause.

If love isn’t at the core of a teacher’s instruction, the ten months that students and teachers are allotted together can still result in something both can be proud of. Students don’t need teachers who love them and their jobs in order to be successful. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t something missing.

Is my hopeful perspective into the hearts of my fellow teachers misguided? If the overwhelming majority of teachers do not love their jobs, as I blindly assumed, where does this leave my perception of the state of education? Where does this leave my teaching? Where does this leave students?

bp

Dear M, (Student Letter #12)

To help me be more critical and mindful of the bonds I’m forging with individual students, I’ve decided to write letters to some of my current and former students. This is the 12th post in the series.

Dear M,

Since the day you left my class five years ago, I knew I was going to write this letter. I’ve thought about it often. I could done it back then, but it didn’t feel right. Your impact on my teaching was immediate, and that year ended rapidly. While I knew you changed me as a teacher, I also knew that only time could show me how. I needed time to process.

In the years since, you regularly cross my mind. I’ve wondered how you’re doing and in what directions life has pulled you. You were always a thoughtful and contemplative student. You served contrarian ideas to your classmates, offering them (and me) a distinct perspective on the world. You wrote poetry and loved music. You were profoundly introspective. Intellectually, you moved with grace and fortitude.

Yet, despite all these melodic character traits I recall so effortlessly, they do not stand out to me most when I think about you. Instead, what comes over me is all that you taught me.

One of the most powerful moments of my career was meeting your mom during parent-teacher conferences. After a solid start to the year, the spring brought forth many struggles for you. We needed to find a path forward, and your mom showed up to conferences that evening with a smile.

I explained what I was seeing in the classroom. She shared more about you. You sat and listened. After several minutes, we turned to you. We wanted you to join the conversation. How were you feeling? How did you see a path forward?

I will never forget what happened next. After we turned to you, you said nothing. You stayed in a hushed stillness. You couldn’t bring yourself to join our discussion. Most teenagers would nod and smile, apologize, and offer up a synthetic promise to do better. Not you. You were pure and unapologetically yourself. It wasn’t rude or standoffish, it was contemplative. Like you wanted to offer us your input but couldn’t.

I still don’t fully understand how you felt that night at parent-teacher conferences, and probably never will. But the gravity of the moment didn’t escape me.

After several deafening moments of silence, I got up and hugged your mom. I didn’t plan to—it just happened. During our embrace, I promised her to keep an eye on you until you graduate two years later, to do my best to support you.

I checked in on you regularly for the remainder of that year. I brought you back up to speed with Algebra 2. You were an excellent listener and fast learner, so it wasn’t hard. During tutoring, we made space to chat about life. We talked about the past, present, and future. You shared your poetry. I felt like I was holding up a mirror during most of our talks.

For the remainder of your time in high school, checking up on you was a priority for me. We lost touch, however, so my check-ins were of the long-distance variety. I would ask your teachers how you were doing and randomly pull up your grades. I also made an effort to watch your body language around school. You never sought me out and we never really had another genuine, in-person conversation, but I never forgot about you. I needed to live out the promise I made to your mom. Ironically, I didn’t attend your graduation because of a family obligation. This still haunts me. It’s always felt like our story went unfinished.

We teachers are tasked with helping young people understand their curriculum, the world, and—when teaching is done well—themselves. Overwhelmed by the urgency of these mounting responsibilities, teachers work at a blinding pace. The velocity of our decision-making propels us to function at 60mph. From the moment we walk into the building, there’s always an email to send, a meeting to attend, or lesson to plan. Rarely do we have time to slow down.

Without trying, you taught me to slow down. It started with that moment with your mom at conferences when you willingly or unwillingly remained silent to force me to hit the brakes. In the months afterward, our unhurried, intentional chats urged me to delay my tendency to move on. You gave me the opportunity to appreciate the depth that comes with teaching instead of getting lost in its overwhelming breadth.

This is how, though I was only getting to know you better as a student and young person that year, our talks helped me understand all my students in the ways that matter most. You prepared me to truly see the young people in front of me.

In the 14 years before teaching you, I would look at my class and see students. In the five years since, I’ve seen sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren. They’re all there now, every day, in plain sight, indirectly asking for guidance, support, and love. They need a teacher, yes, but they also need an adult to understand them, offer suggestions, hold up a mirror, and be their biggest fan. I am glad to be in a position to do these things in large part because of you.

Maybe one day, our paths will cross again. But if they don’t, and we never talk or meet again, that’s okay. I’m proud to have known you and taught you. We served a purpose in each other’s lives for just a brief time, but my current and future students have a more empathetic, discerning, and caring teacher because of it. I’m forever grateful to you.

Please give your mom a hug for me.

Sincerely,
Mr. P

P.S. The photo of your class hangs in my classroom. I look at it sometimes and am reminded of you.

Teaching the same students

Early in my career, I taught the same group of students for back-to-back school years. This happened a couple of times when I taught Geometry and Algebra 2. There was even one class taught back-to-back-to-back school years (Algebra 1, Geometry, and Algebra 2). That was wild.

Reflecting on those students, I think about the unique circumstances that emerged from teaching them for multiple years. Specifically, I remember how our preexisting relationship shaped the year. In September, instead of “Nice to meet you,” it was “How have you been?” A sense of continuation and familiarity filled our days. Our shared history meant we picked up where we left off, leading to a lively class dynamic.

I didn’t appreciate those students and the gift we inherited from the Scheduling Gods. Unlike the waves of new students I teach every year, we already had a foundation. We weren’t laying bricks each day to build our castle in the sky. We already had our castle. Reuniting for a second (or third) year meant we could forge an empire. I didn’t take advantage of this, but the opportunity was there. In my defense, that was 15 years ago, and I was in my third year of teaching. I was treading water — I wasn’t prepared to serve them in a way that honored and built upon our past.

As this school year gets underway, I am recalling those early years a lot. For the first time since then, I am teaching an entire class for the second time. Scheduling changes dropped this opportunity in my lap on day 1, which I never expected.

I must say, I am excited. My ability to build community with students has sharpened through the years, and teaching has slowed down. We have so many rich memories and experiences to fall back on, which will only enhance the new ones we make. Our reunion as teacher and student this year is a gift I never knew I always wanted.

This class is mainly filled with seniors, adding another layer to my anticipation. Their maturity will carry us further than my other classes, but I was candid with them about my fears about the plague known as Senioritis. Although it won’t be personal, I envision most of them leaving me high and dry at some this year as they taste life after high school. The kids are wonderful and reassured me, but I have been down this road before.

Time will tell how this unique opportunity unfolds. Will we build an empire, or will it simply be a dream that never was?