I've been working with some fabulous English and history teachers in our school to reshape our seventh through tenth grade disorganized English and history programs into a well-planned humanities program. Their flexibility, thoughtfulness, knowledge and willingness to put student achievement over the ease of their planning has been encouraging - a story in itself for another day. In the process, though, we've been looking at my school district's social studies curriculum. The degree to which urban district curriculum is scripted is remarkable. Goals are pre-determined, as are all the units - including start and end dates, learning activities, assessments, and so forth.
It's as if teachers aren't trusted to be leaders or mentors at all. A mentor, according to the American Heritage Dictionary, is a "wise and trusted counselor or teacher." I want my own children's teachers to be just that. I certainly don't want them trying to reparent my children, but I want to trust them to counsel and teach with wisdom. When I am a principal, I want to hire teachers who can do the same and help draw out that ability in my staff. Apparently, school boards and city administrators don't believe in their ability to hire or foster that wisdom. Instead, they script curriculum to the extent that a robot could deliver it, or at least a robot with classroom management and discipline skills. One wonders then why the "teaching" and "learning" that takes place is just that, robotic?
My own school has significant autonomy within its district, so we manage to avoid the worst of this control, but it is what it is: the lack of trust is still there. Consider the contrast between my summer employment with a university-based program and my year round employment in an urban public district.
At the university, I have keys to office space where I can print, copy, eat, read, relax, or anything else I might want to do during the day. I also have keys to a classroom that is clean, comfortable, and well-lit. In the district, I have keys to my file cabinet. I can't access technical equipment, paper supplies, extra markers, most bathrooms, or the building itself without borrowing keys or asking permission. Should I want to enter the building, I'll walk into a crumbling building where I might find mice feces on my desk and will certainly encounter lead in all the water pipes, where there is one bathroom in the entire building I can use without the whole world knowing about it, where shades don't work, where I haven't had a working desk in three years, and where heat pumps too strong and air conditioning doesn't work at all. Perhaps I'm better off without keys.
At the university, I have a laptop that is essentially mine, where I can download whatever I need and use it as I see fit. In the district, I have a laptop - more than most teachers can say! - where I can't download a program or install a printer without an administrator over my shoulder punching in secret codes.
At the university, I'm trusted to become a better and more professional teacher and work with colleagues who are highly skilled and motivated, but I largely direct my own growth. In the district - and again my experience is far better than most urban teachers in this regard, I work with a mix of gifted and not so gifted colleagues, both those motivated and shockingly apathetic, and together we're "professionally developed," led through experiences which are mandated by the state at times but may or may not improve how we teach and rarely impacts the type of mentors that we are.
At the university, my boss never formally evaluates me, but both she and much of the program's administration is in my classroom every single day: hearing what I say, observing what I do, and available for conversation around what's going on. In the district, my boss enters my classroom a few times a year for a few minutes and almost no one understands my class enough to consult with me on what I am doing, yet now and then, I am formally evaluated. I'm not sure where I've put those evaluations, but I'm not reading them when I'm trying to improve my practice.
At the university, I enjoy free access to all-you-can-eat, quality dining and fine exercise facilities and am trusted not to abuse the privileges. In the district, the lunch lady lets me have a free milk now and then when she's not swearing at the students and I get to climb the stairs throughout the day, since we have no elevator.
At the university, I'm told that I can order whatever I need and spend whatever is necessary on field trips, and I see results to my requests immediately. Except when they're excessive, and then I'm given a thoughtful explanation to why my request can't be honored. In the district, I have no budget and no sense of what I can order. I have to plan very far ahead and work the system to get what I need and when I do receive approval for disbursement, there's sometimes a long lag time until the money or supplies show up.
The university trusts and supports me. The district does neither. It assumes my colleagues and I are morons, not mentors.
Public schools, in order to do well, don't necessarily need the lavish riches I mention in my university summer program in order to do well. The point is one of trust and support. Again, my school is a paradise in this regard compared to most urban public schools. I work in a school with some autonomy and teach under a creative headmaster who is seeking to lead our school through more humane, honorable means that honor teachers as leaders and counselors.
Still, though, I can't help but suspect that someone assumes I am a moron. Yes, moron: that offensive word coined by psychometricians in the early twentieth century to refer to an individual who could do manual labor and simple tasks but couldn't think independently or creatively beyond the level of a child. The folks who coined this word were of the same era and persuasion of our eugenicists: humane and progressive folks that they were.
Well, so often in life, we get what we ask for and our predictions fulfill themselves with ease. Assume teachers are morons and you won't trust or support them. A moron doing manual labor doesn't need support; he needs clear instructions and procedures. A moron teaching a classroom doesn't need support either and certainly doesn't deserve trust. And if that teacher truly is a moron, he'll happily and contentedly follow the rules, collect a paycheck, and take the summer off to veg out.
If that teacher is not a moron, though, than he might be subversive for a while, but sooner or later, he's out of there. Most interesting people can only stand being treated like an idiot for so long.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Soul Force
A few weeks back I had an interesting and troubling confrontation with a student. The upshot of it all was that the student was suspended and I, for the first time in my life I'm sure, was called a nigga -- repeatedly. And I was left with more thoughts and questions about how we nourish the growth of students who aren't invested in the kinds of futures we see for them.
I had asked the student to talk about an incident in the hallway that he had observed, but before I could finish that question, he burst out in anger, assuming that I was accusing him of something he didn't do. Oddly enough, I had never taught this student, but we had a cordial, casual relationship up until that moment. He then proceeded to rant obscenity-laced angry comments and borderline threats in my direction for almost a minute as he walked around the hallway, bumping me slightly for effect at one point.
Where had this outrage come from? What were the seeds of this young man's anger? Clearly - as he even recognized later - it had nothing to do with me. He suggested his own issues with authority. A friend suggested that perhaps he needed to let off steam and chose a person and situation that subconsciously felt safe in which to do so. Who knows?
But I know that this is the type of reality that blocks student achievement and student joy in the city where I teach. Young people's anger, or apathy, or fear, or lack of self-worth drive the lack of achievement more than skill deficits. Good teaching can address skill deficits. The other issues I mention are larger issues of humanity for our schools and our leaders inside and outside of those schools to address.
Martin Luther King, Jr., in his most famous speech, suggests that the thousands of heroic fighters for civil rights meet the obstacles of physical force with soul force. He equates this soul force with "dignity and discipline," in contrast to "bitterness and hatred."
Dignity, discipline, soul force: perhaps a school leader in our times needs these weapons to combat the abandonment and despair so many urban youth sense in their spirits, which is our own "urgency of the moment." I am confident that in my interaction with this student I showed the first two qualities. I can only hope to apprehend and cultivate more of the third.
I had asked the student to talk about an incident in the hallway that he had observed, but before I could finish that question, he burst out in anger, assuming that I was accusing him of something he didn't do. Oddly enough, I had never taught this student, but we had a cordial, casual relationship up until that moment. He then proceeded to rant obscenity-laced angry comments and borderline threats in my direction for almost a minute as he walked around the hallway, bumping me slightly for effect at one point.
Where had this outrage come from? What were the seeds of this young man's anger? Clearly - as he even recognized later - it had nothing to do with me. He suggested his own issues with authority. A friend suggested that perhaps he needed to let off steam and chose a person and situation that subconsciously felt safe in which to do so. Who knows?
But I know that this is the type of reality that blocks student achievement and student joy in the city where I teach. Young people's anger, or apathy, or fear, or lack of self-worth drive the lack of achievement more than skill deficits. Good teaching can address skill deficits. The other issues I mention are larger issues of humanity for our schools and our leaders inside and outside of those schools to address.
Martin Luther King, Jr., in his most famous speech, suggests that the thousands of heroic fighters for civil rights meet the obstacles of physical force with soul force. He equates this soul force with "dignity and discipline," in contrast to "bitterness and hatred."
Dignity, discipline, soul force: perhaps a school leader in our times needs these weapons to combat the abandonment and despair so many urban youth sense in their spirits, which is our own "urgency of the moment." I am confident that in my interaction with this student I showed the first two qualities. I can only hope to apprehend and cultivate more of the third.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Three Strengths and a Weakness
I was recently asked by my headmaster to identify three of my strengths as a rising school leader and at least one blind spot. Here's what I came up with, posted for our small world to see:
It’s like Three Men and a Baby, except there’s just one of me, and no baby, and not much humor. So, never mind. Let’s get the weakness out of the way first. I work too hard. I care too much. I’m too humble. That’s three actually, and they’re largely not true. I will share three, but I’ll go ahead and save them for the end. First, the strengths:
1) I’m entrepreneurial. I have a habit of seeing something that could be better or that doesn’t exist and then bringing it into being. In my school, I’ve been part of doing this with our common planning time manual, the International Baccalaureate program, the independent reading program, Facing History and Ourselves, a school library, AP English, portfolio-based assessment, Teaching for Understanding, a cross country team, and more. Most all of these have involved great partners, but I’ve played a substantial and often primary role in getting them off the ground. I think that fundamentally this strength springs from intangible qualities I’ve had since my youth: idealism, self-confidence, hope, and the habit of seeing ideas somewhat fully formed in their details.
2) I have an unusual mix of intellect and leadership skills. Again, from youth, I’ve always been tagged as a “smart guy,” and have sought to maintain and further my intellect through broad reading, studies, and life experiences. Unlike some intellectuals, though, I communicate and lead fairly well. So I’ve tended to be put in places where both formally and informally, a mix of intellect, communication, and leadership are required. This was true in my non-profit work, true in my ongoing volunteer commitments, and true in my school.
3) I have compassion for others and a habit of seeing things from their perspectives. There’s something to being a middle child here, and something too to having experienced a degree of personal brokenness. I assume that all people are flawed in a number of ways and that these flaws are part of a human core that is both awesomely beautiful and frighteningly damaged. This tendency toward empathy can become its own internal burden but it has seemed valuable in winning trust and honoring others.
An Interlude
It’s been said that inside every white man there’s a serpent waiting to reveal itself. I may not be a serpent, but I’m not only a white man, but one that hails from a well-privileged suburban school system. Though myself from a family with all kinds of working class routes, my background is strikingly different from the students in the schools I’m drawn to. That itself isn’t a strikeout, but it is an initial strike against me, and rightfully so. Too often privileged outsiders have maliciously used working class people of color, and so I should have to earn trust, given who I am. I’m also aware of and sobered by what an African-American colleague called a habit of white men to treat urban schools as playthings with which to experiment and prove their ingenuity. I don’t want to be in this for myself, but for the schools: for the families. I also have cultivated as cross-cultural a life style as possible, from my friends to my own nuclear family to travel experiences to explicit training in cross-cultural living and work. There’s a reason that my resume says that I’m “experienced in and passionate about cross-cultural relationships.”
Three Weaknesses
1) That said, I’m impatient. My tendency toward compassion often lends me great reservoirs of patience, but there are people that I just cannot abide. I can’t stand people that ask no questions or assume they know everything. I also struggle with conservatives – not necessarily politically so, but simply risk and change averse. So when a teacher asks no questions and makes no apparent moves to improve practice but then acts as if small changes are threatening and require training, well, that’s both issues right there, and I just bite my tongue.
2) I bore too easily and can have a hard time completing things. (See the flip-side, strength number one.) I’ve become a reasonably organized person and a competent manager, but neither comes naturally, and I struggle to stay engaged at the ends of tasks.
3) As a school leader, perhaps most obviously I lack experience. What I bring from my five years of experience in non-profit leadership and seven in teaching is valuable, but I need more. I have insufficient experience in issues around school law, special education, organizational budget management, urban community relations, and student discipline on a larger level. I hope to gain significant experience in some of these areas during my principal residency.
It’s like Three Men and a Baby, except there’s just one of me, and no baby, and not much humor. So, never mind. Let’s get the weakness out of the way first. I work too hard. I care too much. I’m too humble. That’s three actually, and they’re largely not true. I will share three, but I’ll go ahead and save them for the end. First, the strengths:
1) I’m entrepreneurial. I have a habit of seeing something that could be better or that doesn’t exist and then bringing it into being. In my school, I’ve been part of doing this with our common planning time manual, the International Baccalaureate program, the independent reading program, Facing History and Ourselves, a school library, AP English, portfolio-based assessment, Teaching for Understanding, a cross country team, and more. Most all of these have involved great partners, but I’ve played a substantial and often primary role in getting them off the ground. I think that fundamentally this strength springs from intangible qualities I’ve had since my youth: idealism, self-confidence, hope, and the habit of seeing ideas somewhat fully formed in their details.
2) I have an unusual mix of intellect and leadership skills. Again, from youth, I’ve always been tagged as a “smart guy,” and have sought to maintain and further my intellect through broad reading, studies, and life experiences. Unlike some intellectuals, though, I communicate and lead fairly well. So I’ve tended to be put in places where both formally and informally, a mix of intellect, communication, and leadership are required. This was true in my non-profit work, true in my ongoing volunteer commitments, and true in my school.
3) I have compassion for others and a habit of seeing things from their perspectives. There’s something to being a middle child here, and something too to having experienced a degree of personal brokenness. I assume that all people are flawed in a number of ways and that these flaws are part of a human core that is both awesomely beautiful and frighteningly damaged. This tendency toward empathy can become its own internal burden but it has seemed valuable in winning trust and honoring others.
An Interlude
It’s been said that inside every white man there’s a serpent waiting to reveal itself. I may not be a serpent, but I’m not only a white man, but one that hails from a well-privileged suburban school system. Though myself from a family with all kinds of working class routes, my background is strikingly different from the students in the schools I’m drawn to. That itself isn’t a strikeout, but it is an initial strike against me, and rightfully so. Too often privileged outsiders have maliciously used working class people of color, and so I should have to earn trust, given who I am. I’m also aware of and sobered by what an African-American colleague called a habit of white men to treat urban schools as playthings with which to experiment and prove their ingenuity. I don’t want to be in this for myself, but for the schools: for the families. I also have cultivated as cross-cultural a life style as possible, from my friends to my own nuclear family to travel experiences to explicit training in cross-cultural living and work. There’s a reason that my resume says that I’m “experienced in and passionate about cross-cultural relationships.”
Three Weaknesses
1) That said, I’m impatient. My tendency toward compassion often lends me great reservoirs of patience, but there are people that I just cannot abide. I can’t stand people that ask no questions or assume they know everything. I also struggle with conservatives – not necessarily politically so, but simply risk and change averse. So when a teacher asks no questions and makes no apparent moves to improve practice but then acts as if small changes are threatening and require training, well, that’s both issues right there, and I just bite my tongue.
2) I bore too easily and can have a hard time completing things. (See the flip-side, strength number one.) I’ve become a reasonably organized person and a competent manager, but neither comes naturally, and I struggle to stay engaged at the ends of tasks.
3) As a school leader, perhaps most obviously I lack experience. What I bring from my five years of experience in non-profit leadership and seven in teaching is valuable, but I need more. I have insufficient experience in issues around school law, special education, organizational budget management, urban community relations, and student discipline on a larger level. I hope to gain significant experience in some of these areas during my principal residency.
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