“Flexible”

December 4, 2019June 4, 2023 ~ Blue Cereal

The Offer

Several years ago, I was asked by a major edu-organization for whom I did some work to lead a week-long training in Jordan. Like, the country. In the Middle East. Far away.

The workshop was for no less than the King’s Academy – a prestigious boarding school founded and regularly visited by, you know… the KING. Like, of Jordan. The country. In the Middle East. Far Away.

Of course I said yes, and it turned out to an amazing experience in more ways than I’ll attempt to recount here. There was, however, something that confused me.

I’m pretty good at the teacher workshop thing. I could fake some basic humility about it, but it would be disingenuous and – unless you’re new to the blog – you’d never buy it.

What I’m not always successful at is making people in power happy with me. While I liked to think I carried some notoriety in my little corner of the world, I was hardly the first name that should have come to mind when someone in Manhattan said, “We have a chance to make a strong first impression and promote our rather uptight branding in a potentially lucrative foreign market – whom shall we send forth?”

How I was even on that particular list?

The Question

I kept wondering, so I called my primary contact at the all-seeing acorn and asked. Of all the legit, reliable options (many published and several revered in ways I find rather unhealthy), how many turned you down before my name came up?

None, it turned out. I was the first and only person in my content area who they’d asked. There’d apparently been a bit of a discussion about it – the details of which my contact was kind enough to blur over – and it was determined after much consideration that I was – wait for it…

Flexible.

My handler assured me my qualifications were perfectly solid. (I knew that, but I used to sometimes at least try to project some of that humility I mentioned earlier.) I had every right to be on the list, etc., etc.

But this was going to be something potentially outside the norm. The flight itself would be nearly 13 hours, and the schedule once we arrived remained unsettled. I should have such and such resources available, but they couldn’t be certain. I should have X number of hours with Y number of teachers expecting this and that, but it might not be the same group every day.

The institution was unlike any they’d partnered with up to that point, and teachers with whom I’d be working would be a mix of the traditional adherents to Islam (in full burqas and with their own set of cultural norms), progressive American transplants (no doubt wearing hemp sandals and still carrying an unhealthy attachment to Dave Matthews), and a range of unknowns in-between and beyond.

In short, I’d be operating with serious jet lag in an unfamiliar setting for high stakes in an unpredictable environment. Oh, and the King would be attending at least one major event while we were there. His wife was giving that year’s commencement speech and we had really good seats.

It seemed, then, that while my other qualifications were a necessary precursor, what bumped me to the top was the perception that I was…

Flexible.

The Irony

I suppose I was a bit less uptight than some, particularly when being paid to be inspiring and promote good pedagogy and such. I always appreciated the accommodations and the endless food and the quality of the people with whom I worked during that time.

Still, I can be impatient and rather elitist. I’m quick to judge and slow to listen at all the worst times. I enjoy antagonizing people and talk too much when I’m not sure what to say. I can be great company… IF I already like you and IF I find you entertaining and IF you’re appropriately enamored with me.

Otherwise, I have stuff to do. Like, I dunno… Spider Solitaire.

But I had been discussed. I had been debated – possibly with actual emotions involved! And I had been decreed…

Flexible.

For the rest of the prep time and throughout that trip, that’s exactly what I was. In retrospect, it became both a badge of honor and a battery pack of reserve energy. Clichéd as it sounds, I became what I was labeled – often without fully realizing it.

The Flight

As it turns out, roughly everyone on the planet was heading to Jordan at the same time as me. Apparently, many families who live in the states during the school year return home for the summer. They don’t vacation there so much as move back for ten weeks. Never in my life have I watched so many people check through so much luggage. I’m talking literally twenty or more large suitcases and duct-taped boxes per family.

Needless to say, this slowed down the ticketing process substantially. I was concerned I might miss my flight, despite having arrived well ahead of what would normally be necessary. Still, I didn’t fret. I hadn’t even left Chicago and the trip was already proving to be something of an adventure! Besides, I was…

Flexible.

The plane itself held around 14 million people, most of them children. The volume of their collective discomfort, boredom, colic, coughing, and – as the flight wore on – whining, was beyond anything I thought possible in a confined space. Passengers freely passed around whatever medications or home remedies they’d thought to bring, but in any other situation I’d have found the hours of mini-person bedlam unbearable.

Except that I didn’t. I don’t mean that I faked it better than usual. I mean that for whatever reason I just kinda… accepted it. I was aware of the chaos, but atypically un-phased. You know…

Flexible.

I’m told I radiate an anti-social mojo on planes so thick it’s literally venomous. It’s a rare journey when a stranger finds me in any way approachable.

But one did this time. He wanted to know everything about me, why I was flying to Jordan, what I knew about it, etc. He shared his life story with me, up to and including his current plans, and everything I needed to know about the country while I was there.

Strangely, I didn’t mind. Not this time. He wasn’t all that interesting, but he wasn’t overly boring. He happened, and that was OK. Apparently, I’m actually quite…

You get the idea.

Arrival

And so it went. Remember that endless luggage being checked when I was trying to depart? It had to be picked up when we arrived in Jordan. All of it. A single baggage retrieval station with a squeaky conveyor belt, inundated by approximately 19 million suitcases and large, duct-taped boxes.

It took hours. Literally. I was very aware of the time because I was supposed to meet a driver from the Academy who couldn’t possibly know why I hadn’t appeared despite my flight having landed nearly two hours before. I didn’t panic, exactly, but neither was I sure I knew how to contact the Academy, or even call a taxi.

Actually, I wasn’t sure if they had taxis in Jordan. (They do.) How embarrassing.

Still, I tried to focus on what I could control and what I couldn’t. Besides, people in the know consider me…

Flexible.

The week turned out to be a great success. I learned as much as my participants, many great discussions were had, and yada yada yada. It was totes nifty by any measure – no joke.

The workshop schedule changed several times as predicted, and our social itinerary took some unexpected turns as well. The flight back was just as long, although I managed to sleep much of that one. (All those unhappy little children were still in Jordan.)

The Lesson

In retrospect, I can’t get over the power of a simple label: “Flexible.” It’s not like I’m new to the concept that it matters what we assume about others. It especially matters how we speak to – or even about – our students.

Not that we can manipulate this in any predictable way. It’s ridiculous how often it seems we can’t so much as dent their mindset despite nuclear effort, while other times a single comment on our part can save or destroy them – at least for that day. Sometimes for much longer.

In my experience, such “labeling” also has to be real. If I were a genuinely inflexible personality, or otherwise fundamentally unsuited for this particular experience, no amount of rhetoric would change that. I don’t think we can just call kids “smart” or “hard-working” repeatedly and turn lead to gold.

What we can do, however, intentionally latch onto positives which are genuinely there, however buried or corrupted at the moment. We can notice and appreciate them at opportune moments. Ideally, we’ll find ways to cultivate those characteristics in hopes they grow and gain prominence in the overall mix. Perhaps it’s not “labeling” so much as “recognizing” or “validating.”

It’s impossible to predict what this looks like with a given teacher or a particular child, let alone guarantee what will work in any specific situation. So, we focus on building relationships and keep doing our best although sometimes we get it wrong. We find ways to maintain our convictions despite the insanity around us. The needs are so great, and our abilities so small, but we show up every day and try again – just like we ask them to do.

Oh, and along the way it helps if you’re able to stay, you know…

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It’s About What You Believe (Wonder Woman)

April 20, 2019June 4, 2023 ~ Blue Cereal

I’m a sucker for superhero movies. They’re a sub-genre of sci-fi, and the best sci-fi takes us out of our reality, out of our time and place, to better comment on that reality and force fresh eyes on our time and place. A good superhero picture isn’t about the cool powers and mega-battles; it’s about becoming better versions of our boring ol’ selves.

Well, that and the cool powers and mega-battles.

Marvel has generally done a much better job bringing its moneymakers to the big screen without losing the elements which made them work in pencil and ink, but DC has learned a few hard lessons along the way and occasionally breaks through with something wonderful. The premier example of this is 2017’s Wonder Woman, starring Gal Gadot.

I can’t speak with any authority about how faithful it is or isn’t to the comics. I was more of a Spider-Man and Fantastic Four guy, so Lynda Carter was about as close as I got to really knowing this character before now. So it’s this recent movie version of Wonder Woman, and the ethos surrounding her, that fascinates me at the moment.

Like I said, I’m a sucker for this sort of thing.

In keeping with most origin stories, the script relies heavily on the traditional “Hero’s Journey.” Diana has a miraculous birth, is called to action when her world changes dramatically, faces trials and tribulations, loses a mentor (in several forms), and eventually overcomes both internal doubt and external obstacles to find herself fundamentally changed as a result.

There’s nothing wrong with following a predictable path. Most great symphonies follow internal rules, as do pop songs, lesson plans, or recipes. They provide the skeleton onto which the creator grafts the specifics. Endless variations, yet always wonderfully the same. That’s why they work.

Wonder Woman makes several choices about specifics which I’d like to ramble about for a moment. Because it’s my blog and I can if I want to.

1) It shamelessly pushes the power of breaking through our doubts (the internal) as well as overcoming those who would limit or oppose us (the external). Otherwise we never rise to our calling. Our potential. Our gifts. While certainly not a unique concept, Wonder Woman does this particularly well – and with a feminist twist which somehow avoids alienating the boys.

“You keep doubting yourself, Diana.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
{*clank swords clank smackdown*}
“You are STRONGER than you believe. You have GREATER powers than you know. If you don’t try HARDER…”

Granted, in this context the words are literally true. Diana – our “Wonder Woman” – is supernaturally created to fight the God of War and Human Corruption. But they’re also universal – especially for so many of our young ladies. As a culture, we’ve indoctrinated them to doubt everything about themselves, insisted they remain weak, and exploited them as part of our fallen nature.

But they can be more. They are more. And that’s the second thing that works…

2) It’s comfortable with powerful, complex women. Wonder Woman herself, of course, and an entire island of Amazons who receive ample screen time without anything naked or even sexy happening. They’re like… people. Less obvious, though, are characters like Etta Candy, Steve Trevor’s secretary, who manages to be uniquely herself throughout the story. She’s not there as eye candy, not starry-eyed for her boss, and not two-dimensional comic relief. She’s essential – just not super-powered.

Dr. Maru is an evil, twisted woman with a side of sad fragility. She’s fascinated by pain and destruction, yet yearns to be wanted, maybe loved. She’s brilliant, but disfigured – wearing a literal half-mask to compliment the metaphorical sort ubiquitous with such characters. Like our heroes, she, struggles with doubt. Her weaknesses make her a sympathetic character; her choices make her a villain.

The Amazons were created to save man from himself, echoing a recurring theme in Occidental history which elevates women as a civilizing force, as educators, as the voices of kindness, nurturing, or morality. These aren’t universal of course – women are more often marginalized as the source of original sin and as irrational, untamable creatures, and even Republican Motherhood or the Cult of Domesticity carry presumptions of inferiority in more traditionally “male” roles. But the idea that women add something essential to the mix is as empowering as we allow it to be – and Wonder Woman chooses that empowerment.

Once highlighted, this message is everywhere in the picture. The next time you watch it (and you know you will), notice moments like this one in the trenches of WWI as Steve Trevor tries to argue with our hero:

“Diana, this is No Man’s Land. That means no man can cross it!”

He doesn’t see it. She doesn’t even recognize it. But this time, we do. So we know what’s about to happen.

But by far the most dominant theme of the picture – one reinforced repeatedly throughout – is my favorite…

3) It’s not about what others deserve, but about what we believe. Perhaps what we choose to believe.

Early in the film, Diana’s mother tells her the story of man’s creation – by Zeus, in this case, but in terms clearly emulating the Genesis account. Ares – here filling the role of the serpent in the garden – corrupts man, leading to misery and war on a grand scale, and the eventual creation of Diana, who alone can save mankind from this corruption by defeating the one true remaining source of all evil, Ares.

Jesus. Harry Potter. MLK. Malcolm Reynolds. Obi Wan Kenobi. The sacrificial lamb who redeems the fallen is part of that universal narrative we referenced earlier – part of the skeleton on which the specifics are layered.

In Wonder Woman, these specifics are anchored in that tension between belief and worth. Between what others deserve and what we choose to do anyway. And the value of our choices isn’t determined by the odds of success.

Early in the story, Trevor insists on going back to the war, despite realizing that nothing he can do is likely to impact the outcome.

“The way this war is going, I wouldn’t wanna let anyone I care about near it.”
“They why do you want to go back?”
“I don’t think want is the word. I guess I gotta… try. My father told me once, he said, ‘When you see something wrong happening in the world, you can either do nothing, or you can do something.’ And I already tried nothing.”

Diana, of course, decides to join him, convinced that “if no one else will defend the world from Ares, then I must… I am willing to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves.” She does not yet know that she is chosen for this; it is duty, made by choice, which drives her. Her mother explains that if she leaves, she can never return – literally true in Amazon mythology, but universally true of any meaningful journey. Whatever we set ourselves to do, once we step out, we will be forever changed in some way. None of us can ever go home – not in the sense of returning from where we came. We’ve changed. It probably has, too.

Mother gives her a gift – that snazzy tiara we all recognize – with an admonition: “Make sure you are worthy of it.” This followed by a warning in the opposite direction: “Be careful in the world of men, Diana; they do not deserve you.”

Diana’s only reply is to go nonetheless. Perhaps she’s read the script and recognizes that this theme will develop loudly throughout the rest of the picture.

Trevor is hesitant to lie next to Diana in the boat. Because they’re not betrothed, he hasn’t earned that sort of intimacy. She insists he sleep with her (non-sexually) anyway. It’s not about deserve, it’s about choice.

They arrive in London and interrupt military leaders arguing strategy. Diana scolds a general who has been calloused about the lives of the men he commands – he should be ashamed for “hiding in his office” while good men die. They deserve better; he deserves less.

Even our hero falls prey to the dynamic. As Trevor assembles his team of ne’er-do-wells, she questions whether they are, in fact, worthy of such a mission. “Are these even good men?” she asks. Trevor, too, carries the weight of his own inadequacy, both in her eyes and – less obviously – his own. They are broken. They are flawed. They are inadequate. But they are, after some deliberation and hesitation, willing. So they go. Around the campfire before entering enemy territory, they make a toast:

“May we get what we want!”
“May we get what we need!”
“But may we never get what we deserve!”

Everywhere Diana goes are people (and animals) suffering who don’t deserve to suffer. Corruption hurts everyone, not just the bad people. Or maybe it does – maybe we’re all ‘the bad people.’ As events begin to unravel (an essential part of any hero’s journey), Wonder Woman begins to doubt…

“My mother was right. She said the world of men… do not deserve our help, Steve.”
“It’s not about deserve! It–”
“They do not deserve our help!”
“Maybe we don’t! But it’s not about that. It’s about what you believe.”

Wise words. Diana will soon echo them to Ares – defiantly choosing faith over evidence. It’s this realization that finally allows her to overcome the God of War – well, that and Steve Trevor laying down his life, literally taking the sins of the world into the clouds with him. In a plane. Which he then blows up.

So there’s more exploding than with Jesus, but the message is still pretty clear.

Diana chooses to believe in what people can be – not just what they are. She chooses to fight for them. It’s cheesy, and it’s predictable, and it’s ridiculous. And it makes me want to do the same thing, only boring, and old, and not wearing tights.

That’s what the best sci-fi does.

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Tearing It Up

August 31, 2018June 4, 2023 ~ Blue Cereal ~ 1 Comment

We’re exactly two weeks into the new school year, and things in AP World and AP U.S. History have started off about as well as one might expect, given the many interruptions and the wide variety of skill levels and content-knowledge gathered together in each section.

They may be talented teenagers, but they’re still, you know… teenagers.

Last year was a bit rocky at times, and it was important to me that this year start strong. I’m not claiming anything particularly magical has occurred, but so far it’s been a decent balance of high expectations and just enough compassion for those finding the learning curve a bit steeper than they’re used to. Overall, though, I’ve been damn near legit. (I’ll even go out on a limb and say that, as a general rule, feeling like you more or less know what you’re doing is quite a bit more enjoyable than feeling like you’re in over your head and are probably ruining the future in a dramatic, easily-traceable-to-you fashion.)

And then it happened.

I was being all pedagogical, sitting in my classroom at the end of the day and pondering options for the morrow, when the most ridiculous, artsy-fartsy revelation popped into my head.

We should do tear art!

For those of you unfamiliar with the idea, tear art involves stacks of variously-colored construction paper and plenty of cheap glue sticks. Students are given a time period or range of topics, and – without revealing their choices to anyone around them – use their little hearts, minds, and hands to tear out shapes and glue them onto a base page, or to one another.

No scissors allowed. No rulers. No compasses, staples, astrolabes – not even a hole punch. And no numerals or letters – you cannot write on your tear art with any form of pen, pencil, or marker, nor can you tear the paper into alphanumeric figures. It’s shapes and colors and glue, baby – working together to convey knowledge, insight, and understanding.

It’s great for certain age groups or types of students. It lends itself well to topics involving social movements, artistic expressions, strong emotions, or other intangibles best represented impressionistically. (One of my girls asked me suspiciously today where I’d come up with the idea, eventually sharing that her mom used it with her in-patients at a local “psych ward” – which I’m pretty sure is teenager code for some sort of mental health care facility for young people in the area.)

But for reviewing initial European contact with Amerindians or the various approaches of the Spanish, French, and English towards colonization?

Not so much, surely.

I toyed with the idea a bit, and repeatedly discarded it. We weren’t at a logical point for breaking our serious, focused, AP-momentum just yet. The strengths of the activity didn’t really fit this type of content. And, while I prefer not to admit it, I’m to some extent still trying to prove myself in some way I can’t quite put my finger on – a sensation no doubt rooted in my own needs and dysfunctions rather than anything external.

So, no – not tear art. Not now. Not here.

But it just kept coming back to mind.

I eventually made the mistake of checking my supply closet and had plenty of construction paper – although I have no recollection as to why. (I haven’t done the activity in years.) I’d need a few more glue sticks, but those are cheap and Wal-Mart still has all their school supplies on—

NO! LOOK, SELF… you’ve already put together the close reading thing with those colonial documents and that “City on a Hill” excerpts, and they’re just starting to get the hang of primary sources. Save the artsy-fartsy for, I don’t know… some other time. Some time it makes more sense.

Not that playing with colored paper and glue really fits anywhere in the AP curriculum, but still…

*sigh*

As an over-thinker, the dilemma quickly evolved. Soon it was no longer about sticking to the orthodox stuff vs. trying the artsy-fartsy – it became, in my mind, about whether or not I was going to follow my gut and do something that might look stupid (hell, it might be stupid), or go with the perfectly good alternative lesson plan that was entirely justifiable and appropriate for the theoretical confines of the course and wouldn’t look severely weird if someone were to drop in for a visit in the middle of things.

It became about whether or not I was going to take a risk based on twenty years of trying weird crap that sometimes turns out to be brilliant, sometimes turns out to be *SHRUG*, and sometimes completely wastes 72 minutes of our collective lives that can never be recovered or redeemed. It became about whether or not I was willing to fail this early in the year, practically on purpose, when it was so very important to me not to – at least not now. Not this soon. Not after last year.

It sounds far more noble writing about it after the fact – like my face at some point transformed into a beacon of resolve and understanding, my hair blowing majestically as I gaze up and to the right of the camera, smirking heroically until we cut to commercial. There was still a very real chance that the whole idea was still going to be stupid and would not only waste an entire class period but undercut some of the momentum and credibility I’d started to build with this group. That’s not even taking into account how common it is for peers or evaluating administrators to drop in this time of year to observe. (What’s the code on the rubric for “looks like it’s all going to pedagogical hell in a badly torn-and-glued basket”?)

We did the tear art. It wasn’t a disaster. I mean, it was a bit messy, but that was to be expected. And I hadn’t covered ‘glue etiquette’ in my syllabus.

But most students enjoyed it. The traditionally excellent were pushed a bit out of their comfort zone, but they managed (no surprise there). The majority seemed to find it cathartic. The ones who committed themselves to it actually learned a few things, as did those who remained attentive as each class member in turn held up their final product and the rest of the class guessed what it represented.

So it wasn’t an utter embarrassment. That’s good.

But was it a great use of time? I’m not sure. I think so, but I couldn’t back it up with data or anything. Based on informal feedback, a number of them reworked and rethought the material, making it stickier and more meaningful. Others, not so much.

But even if the only accomplishment was that it was kinda fun while still reinforcing content, I’m comfortable with that in moderation. So many things impact how well students will work for you, learn for you, most of them completely out of our control. Maybe it was a release, or a rapport-builder, or some other intangible that will make tomorrow (when we get to those primary sources I’m so genuinely excited about) more effective, more meaningful. Maybe it helped pull back the rubber band of learning before snapping the arm of ignorance.

Or maybe we just played with glue for an hour in the name of college-level history. I’m still not 100% certain.

So this is not a heroic story, let alone a promo for tear art. What it is, I think, is my small effort to confirm whatever it is your gut is telling you. It’s very unlikely I’ll do anything truly crazy – I’m not against shattering paradigms, but that’s just not me. I believe very much in balancing what I think sounds “interesting” with what’s fundamentally sound – useful, professional, appropriate. I started my career twenty years ago relying almost exclusively on energetic good intentions and a modicum of wit; I like to think that over time I’ve learned some of the science of the gig, and that I go to that proverbial “tool box” before leaping once again off the cliff after that demented muse who for some reason still taunts me from time to time.

But I hope my need to play it safe, or my desire to maintain credibility with peers or others, never completely overrides the recklessness of that first decade or so, or those random moments of “what if?” More than that, I hope you, my Eleven Faithful Followers, will take a moment to ponder whatever it was that convinced you to educate the spawn of others for a living (already a crazy concept). Whatever it was that you envisioned or tried or did before “reality” set in, or test results were posted, or your peers got that look on their faces, I hope you’ll consider trying it again, or chasing that weird new idea you had over the summer, or nailing down that stupid “we should really” you and that one colleague keep kicking around.

It might be stupid, but it might be brilliant. It might fall somewhere in between. But you’ll pick up such colorful scraps, and may even find yourself smirking a bit as you scrub the glue off your podium.

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Retaining Baby Teachers (A Tale of Ms. Hope)

June 29, 2018June 4, 2023 ~ Blue Cereal

Teacher retention is a… challenge – ‘challenge’ here meaning ‘nightmare-of-impossibility-dear-god-what-are-we-going-to-do?!?’

If you’re a classroom teacher, many of the real problems (as is so often the case) are out of your direct control. The inane legislation. The crappy pay. The constant degradation from the ruling classes. Helicopter Parents. Entrenched poverty. Betsy DeVos. It can seem insurmountable.

Maybe it is.

But there are some things we can be aware of which might help us hang on to our baby teachers this coming year – some mindsets we could all stand to practice more regularly, even when interacting with our more experienced colleagues.

Don’t worry – I’m not a particularly touchy-feely-positive guy, even with newbies. Nor am I interested in forced sunshine and faux rainbows intended to ‘change the climate’ of a building. I do, however, care about the people teaching next door to me, and down the hall, and across the commons. I do, for reasons I can’t always explain, care about the kids we share throughout the day. It’s in that spirit that I offer the following humble observations and thoughts.

Let’s imagine a new baby teacher in your department this year. We’ll call her “Ms. Hope.”

You can spot the newness of Ms. Hope all the way across the faculty meeting. She’s adorable in a quirky-nervous way, well-intentioned and innocent despite her determination not to look it. She probably has a tasteful tattoo – a dragonfly on her shoulder or a Bible verse in Zulu underneath her many bracelets. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and her best upscale blouse in an attempt to balance stylishness and authority.

In her bag you see the spine of a Marzano book, an insulated water bottle, and what looks like a Blu-Ray of Freedom Writers. Had you met her in the parking lot, you’d discover she’s driving a sensible little Ford Focus and that she’d stopped at Starbucks for an extra-skim frozen go-gurt cappuccino cinnamon power-boost mocha grande with kale and fat-free whipped cream – her go-to drink in times of stress.

Ms. Hope may be inexperienced, but she’s sharp and determined and she means business. On Day One, when most of her veteran colleagues are droning through their syllabus and class expectations, she’s distributing a ‘Learning Styles Assessment’ or some sort of ‘Getting To Know One Another’ activity. And already, things are veering badly from what she’d envisioned in her planning.

“Can I write in transparent neon pink?”
“Is this a test? Is it for a grade? Will there be a lot of tests in here?”
“My mom says I’m not allowed to fill out paperwork without her approval because you’re trying to immunize me into believing the earth isn’t flat.”
“Is this Biology? I think I’m supposed to be in Biology.”
“¿Que esta pasando? ¿Qué se supone que debo hacer con esto?”

She’s quickly discovering that students are hard-wired to do everything in their power to convince us that they’re both helpless and complete idiots – even though they’re not. They think they want us to give up and go easy on them, but they really don’t – not in their core. It’s just that they’re not overly self-aware at this age. This clusterfoolery is all impulse and instinct on their part.

Ms. Hope’s first day doesn’t go well. Still, she’s back on Day Two eager to try again.

“OK, class – let’s get out that Learning Styles Assessment from yesterday and see if we can—”

“Were we supposed to bring that back?”
“My mom wants to know why we don’t have a syllabus and if the principal knows you’re using liberal psychology on us. She said not to trust liberal transgender socialist psychology.”
“My counselor never called me in about needing Biology this hour. Can I go ask to see her again?”
“¿Estás seguro de que tengo un estilo de aprendizaje? Miss? Miss?”

And on it goes.

Let’s fast-forward a few weeks, during which she puts on a brave face and tries a few different things in her efforts to get some positive momentum going. She stays late and cancels most of her social life as she wrestles through lesson plans and writing detailed feedback on mediocre student work. She genuinely wants to do well, and she’s not particularly bad for a newbie, all things considered. She’s even getting to know and love some of her kids individually, despite her difficulties managing them collectively.

You start to think maybe she’s gonna make it, until… THE DAY.

It’s not quite Fall Break. Ms. Hope rolls in a bit later than usual, in torn jeans and a college t-shirt with a cappuccino stain on the front. Her hair is pulled back in an uncharacteristic ponytail and she’s not wearing any makeup. She avoids your gaze and at first appears hungover until you realize it’s more likely that she spent the morning sobbing uncontrollably until she absolutely had to leave for work.

You wonder if you should have stepped up before now. Maybe you’ll ask if there’s anything–

That’s when Mrs. Mulligan wanders over and tut-tuts at the fresh meat she’s been eyeing, waiting for her moment.

It’s here.

“Oh, Honey… now, now. Don’t be so hard on yourself.
“I know they tell you all these things in teacher school about personal learning journeys and flipping off the classroom and changing the world, and that’s all fine – in theory, I suppose. But Sweets, those folks haven’t been in front of a classroom in a LOOOOOONG time. These kids aren’t like the kids in them books. This is real school.”

None of her claims are wrong, exactly – not entirely, at least – but she’s begun luring poor Ms. Hope into a damnable swamp of cynicism and shattered ideals. Her words are sympathetic on the surface, but what she’s really saying is that Ms. Hope needs to

lower

her

expectations

and

dial

back

her

ideals.

Forsake

her primary purpose –

at least mostly.

Mrs. Mulligan offers her a crossword puzzle (with a word bank) to keep the kids busy the rest of the day and promises to bring her entire stash of VHS tapes tomorrow – a year’s worth of documentaries and mini-series recorded from network TV all the way back to the 70s.

Folks, if we do this to our baby teachers – of if we stand aside and let it happen – I assure you, on the day our scantrons are finally run through that Great Grading Machine in the Sky, we will go to a very special level of Teacher Hell.

What could you have done instead?

Let’s rewind the tape to before Mrs. Mulligan stepped in. Before the torn jeans and stained t-shirt.

Let’s instead envision you dropping by briefly a couple of times a week to check in on your new colleague. She may or may not be entirely honest or open at first; no one wants to start a new job by looking incompetent. But you’re all about the open-ended questions and you smoothly rise to the occasion…

“What was that thing you were doing in class today? It looked interesting.”

Should she express frustration or confess failure, you resist the urge to simply tell her what you’d do instead. Suave like a beast, you take another approach:

“So, what was your primary goal? What were you hoping would happen?”

It’s especially important that this sounds as open-ended as it’s intended to be. No matter what the answer, you will of course maintain your best deeply-reflective-but-never-judgmental face. Give Ms. Hope some room to try stuff – that’s how greatness happens.

Eventually.

“What went well?”

As teachers, it’s natural to fixate on the handful of kids being difficult, or tuning out, or otherwise throwing off the plan. They matter, but how often are 25 students playing along, mostly cooperating, maybe even learning, while 3 or 4 shape our entire perception of the day?

“I wonder if there’s a better way to set that up so that more of them understand…”
“What do you think might make it more effective with those two classes you mentioned?”

Or even just…

“What have you tried?”

It’s possible Ms. Hope’s first lesson was too ambitious. Maybe she simply lacked the experience to pull it off. Some of her other strategies might work eventually, or she’ll stumble across new ideas to try.

What she should never feel is alone. Helpless. Stupid. Like she’s failed at the most important thing she’s tried so far.

I’m not against venting our frustrations to one another. Be real with one another and get it out. But if that’s the defining element of our peer interaction, we’re doing it wrong. Way, way wrong.

No one else is going to prop us up. A few administrators try, and are appreciated, but they’re not in our world – not exactly. There are well-intentioned parents who’ll say something kind from time to time. But by and large we’re on our own. Ms. Hope and her ilk are anathema to entrenched political authority, to principalities and powers and wickedness in high places – not because of her politics (we have no idea how she votes, nor do we care), but because she tries to teach children. Because she loves them all in spite of themselves. Because she believes in them even when no one else does, including themselves.

And she’s 23. Or 31. Or 56.

Let’s give her some backup. Let’s make it a point to be honest, to be real, to speak our minds behind closed doors, but to always always ALWAYS follow that up with “What COULD we try? What CAN we do? What IS worth rolling in tomorrow for?”

And perhaps, within a few short seasons, she’ll wander in your room one day and do the same for you.

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The Problem With Linear Reality (You Can’t Go Back)

April 29, 2018June 23, 2023 ~ Blue Cereal

Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’… into the future.
Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’… into the future.

One of the sobering things about edu-bloggery – or social media in general – is how hard it can be to keep up when your tangible, so-called “real” world gets crazy. Far more humbling, though, is that when you DO fall away for a time (slowly, and then all at once), the entire apparatus and most of those involved keep right on going just fine.

Which is rude.

It would be ridiculous, of course, to expect any less. And despite my substantial ego, that’s not actually the difficult part. You see, I miss it. The writing and the editing, the labor and the self-loathing. I miss the reworking, the doubting, the publishing, and the connecting.

There were times I’d knock out several posts a week and discover that thousands of you were reading and sharing them. Other times I’d labor for days over such pith and profundity that I doubted there were words or emotions left in the universe for others to use… and manage a good three or four dozen views. Sometimes the most amazing conversations would start in the comments; other times it was that same bit of misspelled spam from some college essay writing service in Russia.

The numbers weren’t really the point, though. It was the process. The struggle. The recurring leap.

It helped me reflect, and to clarify thoughts and emotions. It brought me into contact with some of the most AMAZING people. It forced growth, and – if I’m being honest – it far too often left me snickering endlessly over some clever phrase or another which I’d somehow managed to wring out.

And then real life asserted itself.

I took a new position this school year, in a state far, far away, teaching something I’ve not actually taught before. I love our new home, and the area, and my co-workers, and my kids. I’m glad we made the move – especially given the new lows to which the Oklahoma Legislature is attempting to sink.

That being said, this year has completely kicked my ass. It’s mocked me and broken me and shamed me and frustrated me, leaving me without cab fare and not calling for weeks at a time. I scribbled about this previously, but in retrospect, I think I dialed back the intensity a bit in an effort to maintain my own little ‘growth mindset.’ And while I don’t mind ranting, I prefer to provide you, my Eleven Faithful Followers, with the sort of witty, contrary-but-inspirational Blue magic you and I have both come to adore.

Now that the annual reboot looms, however, I confess that the learning curve of a new subject was much more intense than I anticipated. My pedagogy and strategies and years of experience seemed suddenly seemed rather… shallow – perhaps even fraudulent – like I’d been skating by on audacity and circumstance and confusing it for talent. Above all, my inability to more quickly figure out my kids and adjust to what they REALLY needed and where they were was simply…

Well, it was unforgiveable.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Blue – you did the best you could. You probably made more of a positive difference than you realized some days.”

Yeah, I probably did. But that doesn’t make it OK. They needed more. They needed better. I absolutely must go back and redo this year – to fix some of it, and try better things.

But that’s the problem with linear reality – we can only learn forward. We can only change in one direction, and even those efforts are based on limited, often flawed perceptions and information.

There are those who insist that if they COULD go back and change anything about their lives, they wouldn’t do it – because those experiences are what made them who they are today.

Pshaw.

Nonsense.

Hockey of the horse.

I’d go back in a heartbeat, several times if necessary, and I’d change so very many things, over and over until I figured out what might work – how much more I could accomplish; how much less damage I could do.

But no.

Time is marching on. And time… is still marching on.
You’re older than you’ve ever been, and now you’re even older. And now you’re even older. And now you’re even older. And now you’re older still.

It’s the time of year that kids start coming to me for “make-up work,” wanting to know what they can still turn in. Whatever my past failings, I do sometimes learn, and two decades have taught me that it’s generally pointless to give students a pile of old assignments to complete NOW – out of context, and in bulk. That’s not really how learning works.

“Here’s that Quarter Pounder with no pickle you asked for three weeks ago” isn’t exactly a life skill, but then again neither is “sorry you fail there’s no hope for you now guess you shoulda done it when you had the chance cackle cackle.” One alternative I’ve come to like, depending on the student and the surrounding circumstances, is to suggest that rather than get bogged down in what they should have been doing two weeks ago, they focus this sudden burst of concern into THIS week’s work, THIS week’s discussions, THIS week’s activities. Give me one good week (sometimes two), at least 80% of your energy each day, mostly keeping up with whatever we’re doing now, and if that happens, well…

Maybe one or two of those old zeroes can go away. Maybe the next quiz can count double – as itself, and in place of that last quiz you bombed. That sort of thing.

It shouldn’t be easy, of course. Straying from the course comes at a cost, especially when it’s a result of willfully poor choices. But it should be possible – at least in most situations. I mean, I don’t know how your gig works, but I don’t get paid any extra for assuring kids in March that they’re mathematically doomed and they should appreciate what a valuable long-term life lesson this is as they come to class for no possible reason the rest of the year.

In case you’re worried, I don’t think we do them any favors when we go to the other extreme and shield them completely from their own irresponsibility, either. It’s an imperfect balance, and there’s no “rule” to it that fits all situations or all types of kids.

Nothing we do is that simple. Ever. Which is exhausting.

You failed – you sunk like Jonah to the whale. Big mouths follow behind you; still small voice swallowed up by you
You failed – you picked the right time to fail – got your past behind you; got your future in front of you
You can’t go back. You can’t go back. You can’t go back.
You can go on…

I have several students who are starting to nail down college plans – where to go, whether or not to swim for this school or keep doing drama at that university. Even those with several good options struggle, partly because they’re starting to realize a rather painful lesson of semi-adulthood:

For ever choice you make, every path to which you commit, there are multiple other options you aren’t taking. You can sometimes change, but for the most part, you’ll never really know for sure what those other paths would look like – you can’t save the game and replay this level later using a different strategy. It’s forward… always.

Nor are there always “right” and “wrong” choices. Sometimes all of your options are bad, but you must nevertheless commit one way or the other. Sometimes a half-dozen different roads look fine, but you can only take one at a time and at best see through the grass darkly what lies along each.

We just have to learn to be OK with this, and to make the best call we can, then WALK BOLDLY AND WITHOUT LOOKING BACK (unless it’s to learn a bit from what’s back there without getting mired down, of course).

Sometimes you screw up. Sometimes you just don’t know better. And sometimes you do the wrong thing even when you knew it was a bad idea. Whatever the reason, the options are all forward. In that sense, they’re all in one basic direction.

So it’s almost summer. Some things will change dramatically soon, others will just keep plodding along. Maybe it was a good year for you; maybe you can’t wait for this one to end. Maybe you did amazing things, or maybe you just can’t believe how few things actually worked out the way you’d hoped. Could be it’s time for a change – but is it a change of paths, or of attitudes and mindsets along your path? Do you need to take a deeper look at your own stuff, or cut yourself a little more slack and realize you’re working miracles with what you’ve been given?

Hell, maybe it’s all of the above, and more, all tangled up at once. It happens.

But forward we go, my beloveds. Forward.