Soapbox: The Way I see Things

…so get this. There was a story on the news today about a Florida school where kids run the place. No teachers, no curriculum – just a center of discovery. But that’s not the point here.

 

The point is that they asked Meline Kevorkian, who’s written several books about education, for a quote about how it wasn’t a standardized curriculum with testing. Here’s how she started out:

“Without testing, how will these kids know how good they’re doing?”

um, Meline? That’s “well.” How WELL they’re doing.

Sheesh.

…is also the one that I never got asked before I had kids. For that matter, I never got it before my kids started school. But here goes:

“You’re a parent. What would you do if you were me?”

Granted, I’ve been able to call on being a parent in so many ways as a teacher. It’s helped me to see that there’s only one child in the room: yours. Parenthood has helped me realize just how hard, how incredibly hard it is, to support our kids. I know that lots of teaching advice doesn’t work in real life. I understand how tricky it is to help kids navigate school, navigate life. Because I’m a parent, just like you.

What would I do in situations as a parent? You’re asking me for advice-as a parent? That’s when I get nervous. See, I’m a parent, just like you.

My kids are an extension of me, just like yours.

I correct their table manners, remind them to say please and thank you, and fight with them to take showers.

I worry about giving my children a balance between freedom and safety.

I check on them at night while they’re sleeping.

I cart them all over creation in my mama-mobile.

I worry that I don’t do enough for them, that I don’t spend enough time with them, that I don’t support their schooling as much as I wish I could.

I sneak kisses whenever I can.

I laugh at their terribly disgusting humor, all while hoping they don’t talk like that at school.

I worry about being “that parent”– a pushy, aggressive, helicopter mom.

I worry that in trying not to be “that parent,” I’m not a strong enough advocate for my child.

I worry that the decisions I make for them are the wrong ones.

Yep, I said it. I make decisions for my own kids all the time, thinking they’re the right ones. But who knows? I imagine my kids will be in therapy at some point in their lives; I just can’t predict what for.

I’ve been in this business for longer than any of my students have been alive. And yes, I joke that my students are “my kids,” and I am incredibly protective of them, much as a parent would be. I still keep in contact with kids who are out of college by now.

But I’m not their parent.

Listen, folks, I can give you as much advice as you want — as a teacher. As a parent, I can identify with many of your challenges, successes and hopes and speak of them firsthand. But advice? I’m as new to much of parenting thing as anybody out there.

The best I can do is to share with you what I know about your kid, what I know about teaching and learning, and work with you to help your child flourish.

I do the best I can do with what I have and what I know.

Just like you.

Ok, people. I confess! I confess! I am the one who went on the morning announcements this month – twice! – to encourage children to write a poem a day for National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo, not to be confused with November’s NaNoWriMo – National Novel Writing Month). And I think I’ve started something good! I’ve gotten poems from kids K-5, and boy has it been exciting?

I guess you’re wondering where my stuff is, huh?

If it makes you feel any better, I’ve been writing too. Some of it’s been inspired by life as a mom, some of it comes from working with kids. Some of it’s good stuff, some of it – well, as they say: If you want to have GOOD ideas, you have to have a LOT of ideas.

Here’s what I posted on my other blog today:

The Eye of the Beholder

April 12, 2010 by Lainie Levin

“I’m a terrible reader. I mean horrible. Really, I’m glad my kids can read and they don’t need my help on homework because I can’t read for the life of me. And it’s a good thing that I don’t need to do it really well, because I’d be totally stuck.

I don’t know what it is. I’ve never been a good reader, and I’ve never liked reading. Letters  have never made sense to me, and they’ve never been useful. As long as I can get by, I really don’t see the point in learning to read. Some people are born with the ability to read and some people aren’t. I’m one of those people who aren’t.”

C’mon. Be honest. How many people are *that much worried* about the statement above? How many of you, parents of my students, might be just the least bit concerned if this were my admission? How many of you, friends or family, are wondering what the heck I’m talking about?

It’s not okay to say we don’t know how to read. Adult illiteracy is, at best, a hidden problem of society. Who wants to cop to not knowing how to read?

So why is it okay in other contexts? Substitute the word “math” for reading at any point in the paragraphs above.

Scarily, you’ll see how socially acceptable it will sound.

For those of you contemplating one-to-one computing programs in your district, you might want to follow this story.

Allegedly, a Pennsylvania school district equipped students with laptops. It was discovered that the district was remotely activating their webcams to monitor behavior.

Yikes.

http://www.courthousenews.com/2010/02/18/24789.htm

Let me get this straight: in order to become more competitive for federal grants, California has a new “parent trigger” law allowing parents at struggling schools to petition to (among other changes):

close the school;

turn the school into a charter; or

fire the principal and half the staff.

I would venture to say we’ve reached a new definition of parent empowerment in the schools.

Hold onto your hats, people. This is one story worth following. Want to read more? Click the link below:

http://www.sbsun.com/news/ci_14306183

Today, she came to visit.

Cynicism sat in the corner, waiting for me. She’s always been there, speaking through well-meaning mentors: “Been there, done that, doesn’t work.”

“Honey, you’re wearing yourself out. You’ll be burnt out before you know it.”

She has always spoken through others, whispering experience-bought platitudes, trying to wear me down.

Lately she’s telling me all kinds of mean and nasty things. She’s been poking her nose in my business more and more often. Worst of all, I’m starting to hear her in my own voice.

“Just sit through that meeting and be quiet. You already know the answer to your questions.”

“Here comes the next instructional push. You’ve seen your fair share; you can outlast this one.”

“You’re not all that – or a bag of chips.”

I’ve always prided myself on being an idealist. I’ve always been an optimist, one who sees the positive side of things with incredible (sometimes irritating, if you ask my colleagues) tenacity. So what does it mean when I feel my own resilience wearing thin? Am I losing my touch? Am I burning out?

I suppose the good news is (see? there I go again, finding those pesky silver linings) that I haven’t resigned myself to it. The thought of losing my idealism still scares me. I still feel compelled to make things right. I still take it as my obligation to advocate for students, teachers, and families.

How else do I know I haven’t lost the spark? I can sit with my students and get goosebumps over fractions. I can lose myself with first graders while we put together a reader’s theater production. I can still ask questions because I know certain questions need to be asked. I can continually re-write and re-tool lesson plans I’ve taught five times already because I know there’s a way of doing it better.

So, Cynicism, I’m not so afraid of you. You may as well come out of the corner say what you’re going to say. I have to admit that some of it contains a grain of truth. Just understand that Optimism still has the louder voice.

Found this article in the Chicago Tribune about female math teachers passing on their math anxiety to femal students: http://bit.ly/bOzIPX

Wow. I always know that it was our love – or dread – for subjects that did it for our kids. No surprises. But it’s always interesting when my intuitions are confirmed by data.

Now, in my happy little world, someone can step up and work with those teachers and help them become more comfortable with math. Someone will allow them to see that numbers are fun, and that once we understand the way they work things come together. And in that happy world, those teachers, realizing their full impact, will welcome the opportunity to grow and change.

I had such high hopes for my lunch session today. I hadn’t circled or starred it in my program, but it caught my eye and I thought it was one I shouldn’t miss:

Instructional Strategies that Work with Gifted English Language Learners

I’ve long felt that these “ELL” kids moving to the United States certainly have a lot to deal with. They’re adjusting to a new country and learning a new language. Still, I can’t help thinking that their math knowledge far exceeds what their language will allow them to show. I was hoping for some practical tips and strategies for meeting their needs.

I barely made it; I was just a minute or two late. The instructor had already launched into his presentation and apparently jumped right in with a list of positive and negative demonstrations of gifted behaviors. I thought, did I go to the right spot? I should also have taken it as a red flag that he was using a microphone in the room with only nine participants. (You know what they say about hindsight)

A few minutes later, he brought it around. He popped the question, “What are ways that ELL students can demonstrate their talents and abilities? Brainstorm on a piece of paper.”

I thought: well…I’m not exactly sure what he’s asking, but I’m game. I jotted down a few things: native language/bilingual writing, art, you get the idea.

Then he asked us to stand up and take turns sharing our ideas. It quickly became apparent to me that I misunderstood the question. Others were giving VERY different answers.

It was my turn. I spoke up and said, “I think I missed the boat.”

He said, “Don’t worry, say what you wrote anyway.”

I did. He accepted the idea, but I can’t tell you it made me feel better.

After an unbearable three minutes of this, we finally got to sit down. He asked the crowd about the experience and mentioned, “Did you notice that I accepted every answer? And didn’t that make you feel more comfortable?” And somehow the voices in the room agreed.

But the voice in my head did NOT agree, and promptly began a mental rebuttal.

“No, it did NOT make me more comfortable. You did NOT make me feel better by accepting a response that we both know didn’t answer the question.” Perfectionist me did not like that. Grrr!

Now would be when I’d give myself permission to duck out of a session. I have no qualms about leaving when a workshop doesn’t meet my needs or expectations. But I was right there in the front. Sigh. There is, after all, a thing such as manners.

It gets better. The presenter went on to his next slide, when he declared that first and foremost, he has high expectations for learning, performance and participation. OK, mentally I thought he had the “participation” part. But then the voice in my head started SHOUTING back. “High standards!? What are you talking about? You just told me that any old answer was acceptable, and that I’m supposed to feel comfortable with that? Would you expect kids to feel comfortable with that, too?”

The argument in my head got louder and louder until it was interrupted by my cell phone vibrating in my backpack. I thought, thank goodness. Maybe I can leave under the pretext that maybe this is an important call. So I left. Happily.

On my way out, I congratulated myself for taking the initiative and getting myself out of there. It would have been mental and physical torture to sit there and listen to that man for another thirty minutes.

 

And then I thought.

 

How often do my students find themselves in the same situation?

 

How often do they sit there in class, unable to sit still because the voice in their head is screaming:

“I’ve already learned this.” Or, “I don’t get this.”

“I totally disagree.”

“You don’t get it.”

 

The only difference is, THEY. CAN’T. LEAVE.

 

Stop, and let that sink in.

 

If I bring nothing else home from the weekend, that knowledge alone will be worth the price of admission.

 

Where to start?

What do you say about programming at a conference where the schedule book is 200 pages long? There are over 250 sessions over 4 days across 15 strands of gifted development.

There’s no way I can possibly get to all of the amazing programming I’d like to see. And for somebody with FOMS (Fear Of Missing Something) that can get a bit tricky.

There were all of the poster sessions – people who stood by their displays to talk about their projects. What a great range of work. I spoke with people who conducted Shakespeare theatre for fourth and fifth graders and others who led global education cohorts. I had discussions with teachers who had taken long, hard looks at the process their schools use at testing and identification of their students. I listened in on some incredible conversations about the latest updates in brain research.

And that’s not even the sit-down workshops!

My thoughts are brimming with all of the great ideas I was exposed to today. Overheard:

“We’re looking for kids who violate our expectation of where they ought to be.” – Nancy Robinson, at a panel discussion on early gifted learners.

“Education is like curling. Kids are the curling stone, and standards are the target. Teachers are the ones who sweep the obstacles away (or not) to get the child there smoothly.” – Caroline Cohen, in a seminar on building support for differentiation

“Hasten slowly means to do quickly what needs to be done quickly but take thought before you do it.” – Miraca Gross, in a discussion on accelerating gifted learners

“At this moment in history, it would seem more essential than at most other times to make a clear statement of will and policy to ensure that we raise ceilings of performance as fervently as we raise floors.” –Carol Ann Tomlinson (posted in a discussion on social and emotional welfare)

And now it’s my job to go upstairs, leaf back through the program book and choose the workshops I’ll attend tomorrow. Who knows what great experiences await me! I do know that it will take some time to sit down and process all of this learning. The good news is that it all gets to filter back to the classroom, and back to the kids – the real reason I’m attending in the first place.

By the way, parents, if you want an experience similar to this one, I’d encourage you to attend the Illinois Alliance for Gifted Children’s annual conference in early February.  http://www.iagcgifted.org/    Check it out!