The Dream Teacher

A Letter to the Youth Correctional Facility

2012-01-29T14:48:00.005-05:00

Dear Curtis,

What were you doing a week ago right now? Were you hanging out with friends on a lazy Sunday afternoon? Were you talking with your family, maybe your Dad, about what you had coming up in the week? Did you ever, for even a second, picture yourself sitting in jail in five short days? Did you ever think that so many lives would be devastated in a mere three days because you would have your hands on a gun?

What were you doing five years ago right now? I know the answer to that one. You were taking your time walking to my class every day and swearing over and over that the cigarette smoke I smelled was on someone else's clothes. You were sitting in my seventh grade class with your entire life ahead of you. Is this how you thought it would turn out?

Do you remember that our class song was Natasha Bedingfield's Unwritten? Do you remember that we talked about the lyrics - "Today is where your book begins; the rest is still unwritten" - over and over? Remember how I would play the song and we would dance and sing around the room? We were Glee before Glee was cool. We were Middle School Musical! You didn't so much sing and dance as stand in the corner and grin, looking at your crazy teacher and your classmates who would shout "THE REST IS STILL UNWRITTEN" until the windows shook.

Remember how we wrote timelines of our lives? We started on that day in that classroom and mapped out everything we thought we'd be doing the rest of our lives. You struggled with that assignment. While other students plugged in high school, college, playing professional sports, and getting married, you kind of stared at the paper. I tried to help you, encouraging you along, but you told me you probably wouldn't go to college, maybe wouldn't finish high school. You did want to get married and have a family...you wrote that on your chart, but other than that it wasn't very clear for you. I promised to help you feel more comfortable with schoolwork so that maybe college could be in your future. You reluctantly placed that on your chart. We compromised later when you erased "college" and wrote "community college."

But nowhere, Curtis, nowhere on that paper did it say "life in prison." Nowhere.

You may be surprised to know that I cried when I found out that you were arrested. I was with my grandchildren, taking them shopping for a "peasant" - that's what my granddaughter calls a "present." I read the news article on my phone and was so alarmed I scared two little girls with my immediate sobs.

Curtis, I cried in the Hello Kitty store.

I knew you were troubled in seventh grade, but I wasn't expecting it to come to this. You knew you were struggling, too, but I can't imagine that you ever dreamed your life would take this turn. I cried for three straight hours the day you went to jail. I couldn't stop thinking about our conversations about your life, how I never thought to say, "Curtis, you won't murder anyone in the future, will you? You won't shoot someone's father and grandfather in the back of the head for the $200 you'll get out of the cash register, will you?"

No, I never thought to ask that. And neither did the other teachers who've had their hearts broken over this news. I bet you'd be surprised that we've talked about you, sharing memories and stories of you, and that we can't even grasp what has happened. Curtis, we had dreams for you even if you didn't have dreams for yourself. And it hurts when dreams disintegrate...you must know how that feels now.

I have to ask you what I could have done to change the rest of your story. You knew I cared about you...you told me you didn't want to let me down. So what didn't I say? What didn't I do? What elements out there were stronger than a school full of encouraging teachers pulling for you? Whose voice was louder than mine?

I need to know so I can help the next troubled student write a different ending. Today is where his book begins...

Identity Crisis

2012-01-13T19:52:00.003-05:00

So I'm not standing in front of my own classroom anymore. I'm proud to be a teacher-on-loan to my state's department of education (emphasis on teacher.) I'm still very connected to my identity as a teacher, so much so that I tend to tell my teacher stories in present tense (when I assign homework, I....) and so on.

But the truth is I don't have my own students now, and the last ones I officially taught are now eighth graders. Luckily, I'm still based at my school and so I still get to see middle schoolers and my colleagues. And sometimes I find myself walking down the hallways of the school, just inhaling.

Because the truth is that I miss them, every one of them, every day. I miss how they're so goofy that my days were full of laughter. I miss them caring so, so much for the teacher that they made the bad days better and the sad days endurable. I miss them so much that sometimes I forget that the students in my school aren't mine.

I tend to lay my hand on their shoulders as I pass them in the hallway: "Excuse me, honey," and I'm confused when there's no reaction. There's no "Hey, Mrs. Rigsbee!" along with hugs and squeals and "let-me-tell-you-what-happened" stories. Yesterday I was so excited to be invited to a science classroom - I was a guest judge for some amazing project presentations! I stood at the front of the room waiting for instructions when a student said, "I like your shirt." I started explaining how the shirt was one of the first "spirit gear" shirts sold by our school, but I was interrupted: "Um, I was talking about Mrs. White's shirt."

Ouch. He was talking to his REAL teacher, the one he actually knows and has a relationship with. I had a Personal Pity Party and went on with the judging.

Later, I worked with a couple of students who were testing, and I used the Literacy Coach's office. Probably not the best idea. I had forgotten that I donated (loaned?) all of my classroom library to the Literacy Coach when I packed up my classroom. I glanced over at the bookcase and saw my entire career lined up on shelves.

There sat Martin Luther King, The Peaceful Warrior. If I had students, we'd be reading that now and writing our Dream Speeches. I saw Master Puppeteer and remembered a grade level unit we did that included Japanese kite flying, origami, and a trip to a Japanese restaurant. I saw the Bluford series and Sharon Draper books like Forged by Fire and Tears of a Tiger, all books that I used in my remedial reading classes - high interest books for my middle schoolers - chosen with care...because I cared.

So...all this is to say...if you find that you are standing in front of a classroom of children every day, remember that you're doing the most important job there is. Cherish those faces looking back at you, and embrace those relationships.

You'd miss it if you were gone...

Teachers' Gifts to Students

2012-01-01T14:14:00.003-05:00

I hope there are some adults in the world right now who can look back to middle school and think that I taught them a little something. I also hope there are a few high school students out there who are using reading strategies I taught as they now tackle the work that will enable them to graduate and live happily ever after. Sadly, I know I taught a few how to take a test: Read every answer. Don't mark the first one you come to that you think is correct. The directions ask you to choose the BEST answer....so read them ALL!

But after a recent conversation with my daughter, I've been enlightened to a bigger gift that teachers can give their students - an understanding of how to live in the world.

My daughter is on her way to interviews for an internship she'll need to complete for her doctorate in psychology. As we talked about potential questions she may be asked, we discussed her ability to work with a diverse group of patients. She told me that she's very comfortable working with all kinds of people, a skill she says she gained, in part, by watching her mother, the teacher, teach all kinds of students.

I thought back to a question I was asked during my first Teacher of the Year interview - I was asked how I teach a diverse group of kids. I told the selection committee that I remember back in the early 90's: teachers walked all up and down the halls of the school proudly proclaiming, "I'm colorblind. All of my students look alike to me, and I treat them all the same!"

I went on to tell the committee, as I've told numerous groups of educators since then, that we were all wrong back then...that we must actually SEE color...that we MUST celebrate every student for who they are and where they come from. We cannot, in fact, be colorblind.

I realized when I left that interview that I had raised my voice while answering that question, and I hoped they recognized that what they had heard was passion about a subject that's important to me: accepting all students, not merely the ones who look like me.

Back to the conversation with my daughter...I continued by sharing with her the time I sat with my Jewish student Aaron, who explained to me how he felt about Christianity...about all of the times I asked my Latina girls to share their Quincenera pictures with the class, and about the time I asked my Vietnamese student to share the story of his boat ride to America.

Even now," she said, "you continue to correspond with a student who writes you from jail, a student you have little in common with."

I never realized that my children were watching, learning how to work with others, as I taught school every day. Yes, I did try to explicitly teach them how to treat people, but I didn't think about what they may learn from watching me do my job.

It's with that in mind that I hope all teachers realize they are being watched by others; those youngsters sitting in our classrooms may someday go out and treat the world the way they see us treat it. So it makes me wonder if I always treated others kindly...did I ever roll my eyes when a colleague interrupted my class over something unimportant? Did I ever make a remark in passing that could have been hurtful to a student? Did I ever disregard a colleague or student's feelings?

Sometime during the past thirty years, I'm sure I did.

Who was watching?

And as I became an older, more experienced teacher, did I do a better job of being a role model, accepting of everyone?

I hope we all can. It's the most important gift we can give to our students - an understanding of how they should live in the world.

Educators Make a Difference!

2011-11-18T14:57:00.009-05:00

At the end of my book, Finding Mrs. Warnecke: The Difference Teachers Make, I asked readers to email me stories of the educators who've changed their lives, and I promised to share them on my blog. I hear these amazing stories every time I deliver a keynote speech, every time I talk to a class of pre-service teachers, every time I lead a workshop. But rarely do educators actually write their stories and send them to me. Mostly I hear, "It was my kindergarten teacher Mrs. So-and-so!" as they're shaking my hand on the way out of an auditorium. These stories are difficult to capture, told in passing, in the middle of others told in passing. They're all amazing and wonderful, and I wish I could remember the details enough to bring them all back to this blog, but it's not realistic that I would be able to do them justice.

This week, however, an educator shared a story with me that's so inspiring that I did remember details, memorable enough that I want to share it with my readers. Two days ago I spoke to 1500 educators at the Educators are Essential Celebration, a recognition of American Education Week that honored the public school teachers of Columbus Municipal Schools, the Lowndes County Schools, and numerous private school educators from Columbus, Mississippi. After I shared my story about the difference my own first grade teacher had on my life, I was whisked away by a local reporter who interviewed me briefly. I returned to the auditorium to gather my things just as the audience was released, and so I became the official door-holder and ended up talking to almost each and every one of the 1,500. So many of them wanted to share their "Mrs. Warnecke" with me, and I was inspired by each one.

But toward the end of the crowd spilling out of the auditorium, a gentleman in a suit and tie stopped in front of me and told a brief story: "I was a high school dropout. I was going nowhere. And one night the high school assistant principal saw me at a basketball game at the school. He literally dragged me out of the stands and to his office. There he handed me the GED booklet. I'm now an assistant principal myself, and soon I'll receive my doctorate in education."

My mouth fell open. From high school dropout to school administrator soon to be called "Dr." The success of this man can be traced back to one MOMENT, one moment in time when an educator refused to give up on a kid, a moment when everything changed.

Don't ever let anyone tell you that we don't make a difference in this profession. We're doing it. Moment by moment.

Real World of Teachers

2011-11-05T18:13:00.012-04:00

That November morning when I learned that I had been certified by the National Board for Professional Teaching Standards I was such a wreck I probably didn't appear to be the "accomplished teacher" that the NBPTS honors. I had been given the time for the online announcement, and I logged on a few minutes before that time, hitting "reload" every few seconds. Once the news went live, the website was jammed with traffic, and only half the page loaded. I didn't see "Congratulations! You are a National Board Certified Teacher" anywhere. But I did see my overall score. Because I was so agitated, I couldn't for the life of me remember what a passing score was. I called my district's National Board Certification Coordinator to ask that very question, but couldn't reach her. So I returned to my computer, reloaded again, and this time I saw that word that would change me as a teacher: "Congratulations...."

I was alone in my classroom when I visited the website that day so I immediately called my husband, and then my mother, and then printed out the congratulatory letter and took it to my principal. I just felt that I needed to tell someone the amazing news. After nine long months of planning, writing, videotaping, testing, and reflecting, the day turned into everything I'd dreamed of: verification that I was impacting student learning in the classroom, the initials "NBCT" behind my name, a 12% raise provided by the state of North Carolina, and the ability to breathe again since sometime back in the fall over a year before.

Now as a National Board Certification coach, I relive this experience every November; only this time I'm pulling for several different teachers, representatives from all curricular areas and grade levels. Last year in my school I traveled from room to room watching each teacher I had mentored check that same webpage. My favorite reaction came from Vicki, the art teacher, as she left me there with her students and took off running out of the classroom. Screaming at the top of her lungs, Vicki ran from hallway to hallway...I could hear her screams descend as she ran down a hall; I could tell the exact moment she turned to run back...the volume would turn up.

One of Vicki's students looked at me and asked, "What in the world did she win? A million dollars?"

"Same thing," I thought.

Recently I had the opportunity to watch a screening of Mitchell 20, a documentary about 20 teachers who committed to change their teaching, each of them agreeing to participate in the National Board Certification process, either the full certification journey or the "Take One" opportunity that allows them to complete one entry of the process. I watched as these teachers struggled with obstacles, both at school and at home; some were unable to complete the process, others completed but didn't certify, and still others faced hardships that were both shocking and inspiring at the same time.

Yes, this film was inspirational, an answer to last year's Waiting for Superman, a documentary that intimated that the only way to receive a great education is to participate in a charter school lottery. The Mitchell 20 are dedicated teachers who work tirelessly to become better at what they do, all in front of scrutinizing cameras and microphones. The audience is able to take the journey with them, step-by-step, and experience the joys and the disappointments that accompany a journey like this.

We all sat on the edges of our seats as we watched the Mitchell 20 log in and look for that congratulatory letter. And those of us who've been there before wiped the sweat from our brows, memories of our own experiences flooding back.

It is again November. This month thousands of teachers across the country will soon learn if they are National Board Certified Teachers. And because of the Mitchell 20 many others will understand what those teachers have sacrificed and what those teachers will experience as they sit in front of a computer, most likely hitting "reload" over and over.

As for me, I'll be hitting the halls again, checking scores with my colleagues and remembering a day in 2004 when everything changed. Maybe, because of the Mitchell 20, perspectives on teaching will change, too.

Thank you to that group of brave teachers in Arizona. You've documented the "real world" of teaching.

And That's The Way It Is....

2011-09-23T20:16:00.012-04:00

I grew up hearing those words - "that's the way it is" - as the CBS Evening News ended each night. Walter Cronkite's soothing voice would tell my parents what had happened that day, while this little skinny girl tried to stay out of the way of the television even though the path to anywhere in the entire house meant walking right in front of it. I heard that voice describe the assassinations of John F. Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. And I heard that voice give play-by-play of numerous episodes of space travel. During Walter Cronkite's last newscast, my college roommate and I made sure to tune in, just to hear him say those words one last time.

I was reminded of that this week as I listened to my principal do the afternoon announcements just before he walked out of the school to head to another educational adventure. I wrote about my principal's decision to accept another position and lamented on the emotions my colleagues and I were feeling. And the month he remained in the school after he shared his decision to leave was, as I heard someone describe it, the longest goodbye ever.

We wrote him notes, brought him gifts, emailed how much he meant to us, talked to him nonstop about his impact on our school (and on us, personally); we threw him a huge party, complete with skits and interpretive dances and PowerPoint presentations with pictures of our boss and funny captions. We thought we were ready. I thought I was ready.

But then those last announcements came on that last day, and they sounded so normal, so this-is-just-a-regular-day: The football team did this, school pictures are on that date, etc. But in my head I was hearing words that I've heard for six years during many other renditions of afternoon announcements - "I love each and every one of you," for example. Then he ended with the words I was whispering quietly to myself because I'd heard them so many times: "I hope you have a great Grizzly afternoon."

Those simple words reminded me of so many others, like the synchronized phone calls to my home phone: "Good evening. This is Mr. Johnson, your principal at the almighty Gravelly Hill Middle School" and his words to the students -"I love you before the standardized tests, and I'll love you after the standardized tests."

Although he's gone now, and his office is empty except for hooks on the wall that will hold someone else's family pictures and diplomas, there are so many words that will forever ring in my ears: "How will this get results?," "It's all about the kids," and, most importantly, "Once a Grizzly; Always a Grizzly."

And that's just the way it is.

My 9-11 Story

2011-09-10T11:42:00.013-04:00

Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day?

Teaching a class of innocent children.... Alan Jackson

I was standing in front of a middle school classroom on September 11, 2001, administering a standardized test. I can't for the life of me remember what test it was; I just remember the entire school was in testing mode - silent with students quietly bubbling.

I glanced up at the clock - 9:00 AM - and sighed; tests like that make the day move so slowly. Shortly after that, a teacher entered my room, breaking testing protocol: you don't walk in and out of each other's rooms during a school-wide test. He leaned in and whispered in my ear, "A plane has crashed into the World Trade Center." He tiptoed out and my thoughts were spinning - must be an accident...how could a commercial jet get off course like that...maybe it was a private plane...how awful.

October 1987
My friends and I visit New York and shop in the boutiques at the bottom of the Twin Towers. I stand outside and look up - it's breathtaking how tall those towers are. I wonder how they can remain standing and not just blow over in the wind. Some engineer is brilliant, I think.

April 1999

I help chaperone the Riverside High School Theatre Department's field trip to New York City and am excited to take one of those tourist ferry rides on the Hudson River. A full ten minutes of the ride consists of listening to the tour guide talk about the World Trade Center, and I click pictures of the Twin Towers from the water. It's a picture I'll dig through a box to find in the fall of 2001.

September 11, 2001

My students completed their tests, and I began to hear rumors - the other tower had been hit, the Pentagon, the Sears Tower, the White House...the stories continued up and down the middle school hallway. I felt uneasy but hid that from the students. Instead, I told them that something newsworthy, maybe history making, was going on, and we turned on my classroom radio. Since then I've thought about how different that day would've been with Facebook, Twitter, and my iPhone. Friends in front of televisions could have gotten me news much more quickly.

But in 2001, we depended on a little classroom radio. To my horror, the first thing we heard was the sound of bodies hitting the ground as victims jumped from the burning tower. I'll never forget my student Shiron looking at me that day and saying, "Mrs. Rigsbee, they're jumping." I turned off the radio just as the bell rang to dismiss class.

What followed was a day of chaos - teachers begging to leave and go pick up their own children from school (who knew where the terrorists would strike next?), students asking questions, staff receiving mixed messages about whether or not to discuss the happenings with children. Too late for me and my kids; we had already heard too much.

That afternoon all events were canceled: there would be no football practice, no meetings; we all went home and sat in front of televisions watching the coverage. I was horrified while watching coverage of the people walking the streets of New York City, holding up pictures of their loved ones, searching through devastation and debris. Some people were holding pictures of their pets - so much was lost that day.

The next morning I stood at my overhead projector and faced a silent class. Here's how I started: "Yesterday thousands of people got up, showered, shaved, brushed their teeth, and headed off to work, not knowing they wouldn't be returning home." Then I took my overhead pen and we did the math: "How many people do you think were on the planes that crashed?" I wrote their estimates down, and we added the number of people who may have been in the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Our rough estimate was 2,000 who lost their lives. Little did we know we were off by almost 1,000.

The days that followed showed us a different reality. Security was heightened everywhere, even in schools. All outside doors began to be locked with the exception of the front door, a practice that continues to this day.

I remember, a few days later, standing outside of the school and hearing the hum of an airplane. I looked up and said to another teacher, "The planes are back." We had lived under empty skies for a full three days.

The seventh graders in my school today were two years old when our country changed. They don't even know a world without a Department of Homeland Security. Those who travel by air have never seen a time when they didn't have to put their liquids in a clear bag and take off their shoes to go through security. They've never known a time we haven't been at war.

This is, of course, an opportunity for all teachers to talk to children about what the world was like before that fateful day and about how changed we are.

And I wonder if somewhere, as we all tell our stories of where we were on September 11, 2001, my student Shiron is telling someone about the middle school classroom where he sat listening to a radio. There are so many things about that day I'll never forget...and Shiron sitting wide-eyed and looking to me for explanation is one of them.

Unfortunately, Shiron, the events of that day still defy explanation.

This picture of the Twin Towers was taken from a ferry boat in April 1999. It sits on my desk now, a reminder of a more innocent time.

Meeting the Teacher

2011-08-23T19:21:00.012-04:00

Let's say a doctor has to have surgery. Do you think he walks into the operating room, holding his surgical gown closed with one hand and examining the instruments with the other? Does he look at the sheet that will cover him, checking to see if it's sterile? Does he check the temperature of the room, ensuring that it's at a comfort level that will be conducive to a successful surgery?

I don't know if all of that happens, but I know some rather intense scrutiny ensues when a teacher attends a child's Meet the Teacher night. I know because I was just that parent...errr...grandparent.

Let me back up. I don't have many memories of my own children's Meet the Teacher night, or "Open House" as we call it at my school. As a middle school teacher, I always had to greet my own students and parents that night, as many of us did, so we arranged to drop by the elementary school and introduce ourselves to the teachers at another time. It was a professional courtesy we offered each other: "I'm sorry I'll have to come by a little early, but you understand...I have to be at my own school tonight." It worked out well.

I did have the opportunity, or let's say I made sure to have the opportunity, to visit my children's high school teachers. Something about grabbing that chemistry syllabus and hearing that teacher's presentation seemed so important. And I realized there was a great deal to be learned on these nights.

Case in point: my son, who attended Open House so he could see girls in summer shorts and tank tops, I'm sure, took a French class one year. I was surprised to enter that classroom to see that it was a Spanish class. Yep...I mean "Si"...everything in the room was Spanish...from the sombreros to the words on the wall. I sat there and looked around: how would my ADHD son ever learn French in a room full of Spanish? Soon, in walked the French teacher (pushing her traveling cart), and she nicely explained that she would be using the Spanish classroom and didn't have a room of her own.

She then sprawled out, in the jeans she was wearing, across the desk, and talked to us about her expectations. I resisted the urge to share my own expectations with her, including that you dress professionally when you meet parents and perhaps consider standing up. Instead I waited until her presentation was done and approached her.

"Do you think," I asked politely, "that you could ask the Spanish teacher if one of the four walls could be reserved for French? Then I'll tell my son to look only at that wall. Otherwise, he's going to be get really confused."

"Oh, that..." she answered. "Actually, I like this arrangement. I never have to worry about decorating a classroom as long as I travel like this." Sadly, in two sentences, Mademoiselle had summed up how committed she was to her job and to her students. And if memory serves me correctly, my son didn't do very well in French. Tres mal.

Fast Forward. Tonight I attended Meet the Teacher/Open House at my granddaughter's school. Taylor will begin kindergarten on Friday, which adds fourteen decibels of emotion on top of regular Back to School - buy the supplies - get new sneakers stress.

I knew walking into the building that I would be a Hawkeyed-Teacher-Nana, looking for any signs that this classroom would not be the best experience for my Taylorbug. I decided to keep an open mind and try to observe like every other grandparent. I began by making positive comments: "Look how neatly she's written Taylor's name! Elementary teachers have the BEST handwriting."

Then the Teacher Police took over. I looked across the room and saw two adults - one, of course, was the teacher, and one was the teacher assistant (also known as the paraprofessional). Which was which? Here's the problem: I should have known because the teacher should have announced, in her bubbliest voice, "I AM THE TEACHER! HI TAYLOR!"

Okay, maybe not. But that's what I was looking for. Taylor's mom filled out 957 forms (we don't have parents complete the forms at Open House in middle school...they take them home, for gosh sakes...which I promptly told my step-daughter...who asked the teacher...who said, "I'd prefer that you do them here." Great.) So while the forms were being filled out, I took Taylor on a field trip...to scope out the other kindergarten rooms. What if another teacher has more/different stuff? We must know this...and fast.

Things seemed mostly equitable except that one teacher had a bunk bed looking loft reading platform thingee with some cool bean bags on it....and a tiny sofa that looked so inviting I wanted to wedge my oversized body into it and read a book. Of course, of the three classrooms, I stalked...errr...visited...that loft is the one thing Taylor saw: "What was that, Nana?"

"Um...that's where those kids take naps. You won't have to take a nap in your room." Back in Taylor's class, her mom was on Form #954 so I seized the opportunity to have a private moment with the teacher.

"Hi," I said girl-to-girl. "I'm a teacher, too."

I waited. I looked deep into her eyes. I thought for sure I'd see that look that old college sorority sisters give each other when they reunite after several years. But no look...just an, "Oh...great..."

I couldn't contain myself any longer. "Look," I said. "Here's the thing. I am Nana. And this is my Taylorbug. So. So...I'll be here a lot. Okay? Like really a lot. Okay?"

At that point Taylor asked me to read her a book from the beautiful book display. She grabbed one and brought it to me. It was a lovely little picture book, and I opened it and formed my mouth to read the first words.

Only I couldn't.

It was in French.

Dear Taylor's teacher,
I apologize ahead of time. Just so you know....

Freedom

2011-07-05T12:36:00.008-04:00

I love to hear about Fourth of July celebrations: folks watching fireworks, boating at the lake, tanning at the coast, and eating summertime food. My husband and I celebrated this year by taking a bike ride to the dam at the lake shared by my state and the one above it. I use the term "bike" loosely. To me, it's what I received from Santa when I was nine, but my husband uses the term to refer to a Harley Davidson motorcycle.

Either way, it was a ride through the country, passing beautiful scenery along the way. I wished I had brought my camera when I saw the abandoned, rusty train cars that were the backdrop to a field of Queen Anne's Lace sitting beside a creek. And I wished I had brought a plate when the smells of all the cookouts we passed were wafting in the air (note: in the South, barbecue is a noun, something we eat; you may call the event I was smelling along the way a "barbecue." If so, you "ain't from 'round here." I call it a "cookout.")

Sitting on a motorcycle for five hours gives you a great deal of time to think. It's too loud to talk, and you have to keep your mouth closed anyway unless you want to ingest whatever may be flying around in the air. So I had time to think as we rode. I thought about the scenery; there are so many memories that go along with fields of tobacco (I worked as a "hander" during the summer after my eighth grade year), lakes (swimming in them as a child, living near one as an adult when my children were first born), and yards full of every type of celebration (flags and food and people in lawn chairs.) I saw a dog eating ice cream, right off the cone being held by his master, and a dog sitting proudly on the front of a boat ("I'm the DOG of the world...")

I thought a bunch about freedom, too, and what it really means....just to be able to hop on a bike and ride to nowhere/anywhere with no time restraints. One particular piece of scenery smacked me right in the face with the word "freedom." After leaning into a curve on a rural road I saw a sign that sent me spinning: an arrow pointing in the direction of our state's youth correctional facility.

My heart jumped as I realized that this facility is where my former student D is being held. You may remember D from a previous post that involved a parole officer and a felon "at-large" conversation for me. If you've been reading this blog for awhile, you'll remember my reconnection with D, who was at that time a high school sophomore that I hadn't seen since he was a goofy seventh grader.

Well, now, after spending a couple of months in our county jail, D is serving his time at a prison for youth offenders. While being held in "the county," as D calls it, he found ways to communicate with me. Any unknown number on my ringing cell phone would turn out to be D's sister, or mother, or family friend. Once a stranger called: "My boyfriend is in the county jail. D slipped me a note on a napkin because he wanted me to call you..."

Usually he would send a message saying that he wanted me to visit him. I found out that there are rules for this kind of thing: "Visitation for inmates K-P are on alternating Mondays and Thursdays at 4:30PM. Cash can be deposited into the accounts of inmates K-P on Tuesdays at 9:00 AM and 3:00 PM." Again, I was thrust into a world I didn't know or understand.

I showed up to see him on a few occasions, but my times were off so they never let me "back there." I did leave him a little bit of money a couple of times; as I understand it, they can purchase items like candy bars, stamps, etc. In return, D writes me letters. He always begins by thanking me for the money and for thinking about him. He doesn't hear from anyone else, he says. He's working on his GED, he tells me, if he can only stay out of trouble in the classroom. "They're always writing people up for nothing," he says. (This comment reminds me so much of the seventh grade version of D, who was constantly getting written up at school for "nothing.")

I always write back and try to encourage him, something that I've been trying to do for five years now, but it seems that although I try, his environment is louder in his ears than I could ever be. In his last letter, he sounded more excited than I've heard him before - his brother will be out of prison in five months; he thinks he'll have "somewhere to go" when he himself is released.

I've asked D to write about his experiences and told him that there are folks who may want to read about his life, how he ended up in this situation. He answered promptly in a return letter: "Who wants to read about another poor 'hood felon?"

So as I took in the summer air on a motorcycle and ate my obligatory hot dog and ice cream on the Fourth of July, I thought about freedom, and I thought about D. Just past the sign pointing to the youth correctional center sits a federal prison. I noticed the razor-sharp, winding barb at the top of the fence surrounding it. I saw the armed guards at their posts and wondered what different definitions the inmates inside would have about freedom. And I silently prayed that D never ends up there.

Then I turned my face toward the wind and headed back home to my life.

On Losing Katniss...

2011-05-30T09:34:00.006-04:00

Although I am fighting it for all I'm worth, I'm losing Katniss. The loss has been gradual, but inevitable, and I feel it more everyday. I'm trying to hold on to the Katniss I've known for over two years, the one whose battles I've tensed every muscle through, the one whose struggles I've had nightmares over. That Katniss is becoming more and more dreamy; I can still see her, but through a cloudy fog. More and more I'm losing the Katniss that I've imagined, and she's being replaced with...

Jennifer Lawrence.

As a reading teacher, I teach my students to visualize the descriptions in the books they read. My principal refers to it as "the movie in their heads" when they can actually see what they're reading. While reading the Hunger Games trilogy, I visualized Katniss, and she became a friend during those books, one I felt I actually knew, one I missed once the books were completed.

But now The Hunger Games movie is being filmed, here in my own state, so I'm inundated with pictures of Jennifer Lawrence, the beautiful and talented actress playing Katniss. My Katniss was not quite so beautiful...well, she was naturally pretty, I guess, but that's not how I thought of her. She was tough. She was dirty. And she didn't have pouty lips as perfectly shaped as the bow she carried.

Jennifer Lawrence is gorgeous. Jennifer Lawrence doesn't look as if she has it in her to wipe out all the other tributes (16-year-olds selected by lottery to fight to the death - on reality tv - while representing their districts.) But my son the actor says she's a brilliant actress so maybe she'll be able to pull it off. I still miss my Katniss.

I worry about our students' imaginations dying out, becoming extinct from lack of use (like we've been warned about our pinky toes.) Let's take the Twilight series, for example. I haven't talked to one middle school child who can describe the character Edward from details in the book. But they can describe Robert Pattinson the actor to a "t." And Taylor Lautner, too. These guys are plastered all over middle school lockers and notebooks. Their faces (and bodies) are ingrained in the brains of adolescent girls. Who needs an imagination?

And is there one person in the world who doesn't see Daniel Radcliffe when they hear the words "Harry Potter"? But here's J.K. Rowling's description: "Harry had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green eyes. He wore round glasses held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had punched him on the nose." He's also described as being extremely thin and small, wearing baggy clothes that are Dudley's hand-me-downs. Well, I for one, don't remember seeing taped glasses in any of the Harry Potter movies, and Daniel Radcliffe looks pretty normal-sized to me.

As teachers we must make an explicit effort to design lessons that foster the use of imagination. We have to model the transformation from author's description to reader's visualization: "How is Katniss described by the author? What does she look like to you?" If we're lucky every student's rendition is a little different, every imagination taking the author's words to varied shades of different directions.

Also, with a bit of luck, we can get ahead of the movies, ahead of the video games, ahead of the music videos that interpret the songs for our students so they don't even have to bother. Hopefully, we can teach them first to think and imagine for themselves.

My son the actor has met Josh Hutcherson, who'll play Peeta, the male tribute from District 12, and one of my favorite characters in The Hunger Games. Josh was a teenager when they talked at the Teen Choice Awards in 2005. Years later, he and my son would share the same acting coach in New York City, and they would have lunch together.

Lunch with Peeta. I can't even wrap my head around that. But thanks to Gary Ross, director of the movie version of one of my favorite books, I may not have to think or imagine anything. I'll just sit back and watch...and fight like a tribute to not allow my Katniss and Peeta to be erased.

Don't Get Comfortable

2011-05-06T21:32:00.019-04:00

'Tis the season: folks everywhere are donning fashionable gowns and moving the tassel from right to left. That moment - when the graduating class of 2011 is introduced - the future will lay ahead for the graduates, the veritable "rest of their lives" will be upon them.

My own nephew became a college graduate yesterday, and I was asked to represent the family by providing some remarks to a gathering on Fraternity Row. I was even given a prompt: "Tell the Sigma Nu brothers what they need to know for the future."

Oh, my. That was a tall order. I don't even know what I need to know for my future. How could I place myself back at 22 years old and find words of wisdom?

But that's exactly what I did: I thought about my own graduation from the very same university 32 years ago, and asked myself what I wish I had been told back then.

And after enjoying the huge feast prepared by Big Sam, the Sigma Nu cook, here's what I said:

Finding eloquent words for a group of brilliant young gentlemen like yourselves shouldn't be difficult. Others out there have shared words of inspiration, great words that we all know - Tim McGraw will tell you to "live like you're dying." Leann Womack hopes "you dance." Even John Mayer will tell you "there's no such thing as the real world" as he's running through the halls of his high school.

These are all great messages, but mine's a little different. I have three words for you: Don't Get Comfortable.

I'm not talking about your basic needs. Of course, we want you to eat well, be healthy, have shelter, and so on. I'm talking about your goals for your professional life...don't get too comfortable when it comes to your career.

I had a dream once...to be a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. It never happened. And as I look back, I realize the problem: I never went to Dallas.

Evidently, you actually have to go there. The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader Fairy did not come to North Carolina to recruit me. She did not show up on my porch and tap me with a wand, leaving me in tassels and boots.

I had played it safe and stayed home where I was comfortable.

Don't get comfortable. Be a risk-taker. Push yourself beyond what you think your boundaries are. Step out of the safe zone. Be innovative and creative. Don't let complacency rule your life.

I don't want you to look back in 32 years and wonder why you were, um, never a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. Whatever your goal is, go for it! Move mountains to make your dreams happen. Do whatever it takes.

Just don't get comfortable.

I'm not sure if my words hit their mark with the young brothers of Sigma Nu, but one of the fathers in the audience said to me later, "Hey, uh, Dallas is still there. It's never too late."

Hmmm....something to think about.

My daughter, an NFL cheerleader for the Carolina Panthers, is on the far right, beside the Dallas Cowboy cheerleader, at the NFL Pro Bowl in January 2010.

A Sorta Fairy Tale

2011-04-29T12:42:00.016-04:00

Tori Amos' song title is appropriate today as we watched a prince marry his princess...er...duchess, the title she was given by the Queen. It was sorta a fairy tale due to the pomp and circumstance, the regalia, the carriage ride, and the prince/husband. But in some ways it was the same story as my own son and his bride...just a couple of kids who met in school, went separate ways a few times, came back together, said "I will" and "I do" and hope to live happily ever after.

There have been some who have challenged those of us who were mildly interested (or wildly fascinated) at the nuptials today. I get it. As an educator, I have been thrust into the current war zone along with my colleagues. These are times that I feel the need to justify to the world that I am a professional, that my work is important (so important that it can't be evaluated by looking at student numbers that are gathered on one day, reflecting one test.) So that's stressful and important and distracting enough without getting up at oh-dark-thirty to watch television. In addition, as a resident of the Southeast, I have spent a good part of the past two weeks peering out windows, dreading the all too familiar funnel cloud that has been common around here.

In other words, I know there are more important issues than a wedding involving strangers across the ocean. But lest you haters want to judge, indulge me a moment, and let me tell you why I watched and why I felt compelled to provide a play-by-play social media commentary during the event.

First of all, I have a degree in English. I love England, having studied the history of the country as required by my major. Also, I spent the better part of my last two years of undergraduate studies reading dead poets and playwrights who unknowingly impacted my learning, and then my teaching, for almost forty years. When the Reverend Richard Chartres, the Bishop of London, quoted Chaucer during the ceremony, he sent me straight to translations of The Canterbury Tales and my senior English class with Mrs. Gertrude Chewning in a trailer at Northern High School then to an entire semester devoted to "Geoffrey" all by himself my junior year in college. Later during the ceremony the choir sang "Jerusalem" based on lyrics by one of the Romantic Writers, William Blake. At that moment I was transported to sitting in Greenlaw Hall at UNC-Chapel Hill reading Tyger, tyger, burning bright..." Fittingly, both of these literary heroes of mine are buried at the wedding venue, Westminster Abbey, along with Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Tennyson, Dickens, and Austen in a section appropriately named "Poet's Corner." If I ever have a chance to see it, I will surely weep.

Poet's Corner in Westminster Abbey - if only those tombs could talk....

So, yes, the English major in me wanted to see the wedding. But the middle-aged woman in me wanted to see it, too. I was there, nose pressed to the television in 1981, rocking a four-month-old and watching the timid Lady Diana marry her prince. A year later, little Wills was born, and I watched him continue to grow through the years just like my own little princess. And I, like so many others, looked on as the marriage struggled, saw the divorce play out in the tabloids, and watched in horror as Diana lost her life and was laid to rest after two little boys followed her casket through the streets of London. Like it or not, this family is a piece of our culture, and for that reason I wanted to watch the next chapter.

For some of us, the royal family is an intriguing history lesson. I tweeted earlier this week that if our country's forefathers could see all the media coverage of this event, they may wonder why they fought so hard for independence. But what a unique social studies lesson for our students: here's where we started, here's what happened next, and here's where we are now. Then we could ask: How about when they sang "God Save the Queen" and it sounded just like "My Country 'Tis of Thee" that we all learned in first grade? Why is that? And why wasn't the Queen herself singing, but her husband was? Cool classroom conversations...

What about the rich discussions we can have in our classrooms about just exactly who among us hails from England? Many of our students originated in other places; let's talk about everyone's heritage while we're on the subject...

Speaking of heritage, my father told me his family came to America from Wales, another reason I found the event today so interesting. My mother's family has traced my ancestors back to Leicester, England. Those of us with ties to the United Kingdom may just enjoy comparing cultures. For example, I have a problem with the fact that if I ever meet Kate Middleton, and I want to display proper etiquette, I will have to curtsy to a 29-year-old and refer to her as "ma'am."

Please. I have sweaters in my closet older than she is. And in general, I was put off by the formality of the wedding. It was too quiet inside the abbey. When the couple was announced as husband and wife, there should have been a few cheers, at least a clap or two. I hate when weddings sound like funerals.

And when the bride and groom exited, I longed for Kate to simply grab Will by the arm; that dainty handholding halfway up in the air looked a little as if they may break into a waltz at any moment.

Which leads me to the last reason for watching the Royal Wedding: the sheer entertainment of it. I mean, seriously, Eugenie and Beatrice, you call yourselves princesses? I call that stuff on your heads target practice! I feel bad for whoever sat behind you.

Here's the thing: in these days of devastation and tragedy, these days of feeling that there is a fight brewing inside us ready to be unleashed at every turn, we need to take a break and celebrate love and beauty, and, well, magic. Life will be back to smack us in the face soon enough.

Sometimes we just need a sorta fairy tale.

My son, Prince Will, and his Princess Rebecca last August. No formalities during this wedding recessional....right down to the Converse sneakers.

Irises and Sweet Bubby Bushes

2011-04-23T17:48:00.017-04:00

The Smokehouse at My Grandparents' Old Homeplace

In so many ways, we are who came before us. In many other ways, we are the antithesis of our ancestors, fighting to do better, have more, and be more than our parents and grandparents.

Today I sifted through artifacts (trinkets, my daughter called them) of my grandparents' life. In a house that was built during WWI, my brother, sister, husband, and I waded through the debris that takes over when a house has been abandoned by sickness and death...a house that previously had seen 100 years of Christmas-gift-opening laughter, 50 years of chicken dumplings and strawberry cakes served by my grandmother, 30 years of gathering around the piano to sing "Have a Little Talk with Jesus," countless years of living about to be demolished as new owners will soon clear the land to build a new home.

"Watch out for Tippy's grave," my brother told the buyer.

"Watch out for my memories," I thought.

In the summers of my childhood, when other kids were packing up for camp, I was sent to my grandparents' house. I dreaded it with all the fervor my young self could muster: as a child I thought the country was undoubtedly the most boring place on earth! My grandmother went to bed at 7 PM...and we may as well have been in bed: there was certainly nothing to do there, and by the way, it was darker in the country than any individual from the city could imagine! They didn't believe in lights there. I thought all those old-timey years with candles ruined them - they were so impressed with inside electricity that lighting outside would seem an indulgence.

So I spent those weeks in the summer scared senseless at night, lying awake with bulging eyes because no kid in America could possibly be asleep at that hour, and no kid should have to lie awake and listen to sounds that don't include interstate traffic.

Occasionally, I was scared senseless during the day, too. I was awakened every morning to the crow of a rooster (does anyone really think that screech is a pleasant sound?) The other daybreak sound in the North Carolina Sandhills is that of a Mourning Dove - those "who-who-who's" are still ingrained in my audio memory and remind me of missing my parents during those summer trips.

Once I woke up with an ax-wielding Granny standing over me. My grandmother needed help with a classic country chore - chopping the head off a chicken. I was pronounced the "holder of the chicken." I had a problem with this job on many levels, none the least of which was that Grandma the Chicken Slayer could possibly miss and chop my hand off. Also, I love all living things, and to this day can't even step on a spider in my house, preferring instead to hoist him onto a paper towel and deliver him outside. So poultry-cide certainly proved unpleasant to me. And, by the way, chickens DO run like, well, a chicken with its head cut off...in a circle...all over the yard. Note the post traumatic stress here!

I was also traumatized by the lack of conveniences out there in my Granny's sticks! She didn't have indoor plumbing until I was married and had my own children. I was pretty sure that there were creatures that had not been identified in the abyss that was the bottom of the outhouse. Sometimes I was brave enough to look down there in that hole, but there was nothing discernable - only darkness forever and ever. The fear still lurches in the pit of my stomach today when I think of the child abuse that was going on when Granny made me sit on that hole.

All that aside, I have other memories of my childhood summer place that aren't so traumatic. When I was eight, my grandmother's friend loaded my cousins, my sister, and me into the back of a pickup truck and took us to see The Sound of Music in the movie theatre on the day it was released in that small Southern town in 1965. I remember the bumpy truck ride over rural dirt roads every time I see the movie replayed.

And how many people can say that they have climbed on a wooden pasture fence and jumped bareback onto a moving horse, grabbing the mane, and holding on for life? (But mainly holding on so Mama wouldn't find my body in the pasture and know what I had done.)

How many folks have played in the top of a hayloft, jumping to the bottom floor of the barn (but not getting hurt because of the hay mattress that lay below)? Who's picked blackberries from vines beside the garden, only to be eating warm cobbler thirty minutes later? Gathered chicken eggs out from under squawking hens? Watched kittens emerge from a little hole in the stable door just as they're able to walk? Seen neighbors walk up the driveway with fresh baked goods to share? Snapped beans on a country porch for hours while swatting gnats? Taken a ride on a mule-drawn plow through rows and rows of cornfields? Who's banged on a piano, displaying no talent at all, but yelling, "You like my song, Granddaddy?!" only to hear, "It's beautiful!" shouted in from the other room? (Nothing to DO in the country? Boy, was I wrong...)

All of these experiences make up a big part of who I am. But my parents chose mostly a different life for me, raising me in the city and stressing the importance of getting the education that my grandparents didn't have. I'm a long way from the cotton mill that my grandmother worked in. I'm a long way from that outhouse.

Today my mother pointed out flowers around my grandparents' yard and house. "Just dig up a few, and we'll replant them at home. I want the Seven Sisters roses and the purple and gold irises."

I reminded her that we gathered bunches of irises during our last visit. They're blooming in my yard now. "Well, get me some of that Sweet Bubby Bush then."

Soon we drove away and began our long journey home. For miles I could hear my Granny playing the piano; I could taste her dumplings and home-canned green beans. I could feel crafts between my fingers, the ones I made every summer at Vacation Bible School at the Bright Light Baptist Church. I could feel the rough wood of my Granddaddy's plow.

I arrived home with a sense of homesickness - I walked outside to shake it off....homesickness at home - such an oxymoron.

I walked across the backyard with my dog and caught a flash of color.

I turned and saw the purple and gold of my grandmother's irises, transplanted to the city like me, blowing in the wind.

What Kind of Difference Will You Make?

2011-04-16T19:43:00.007-04:00

It is no secret that I've been preaching far and wide about the difference that teachers make. I've lived it, as a first grader, in a dark basement classroom, and I've read it in letters from past students who want to thank me for impacting them in a positive way. I've written articles about the importance of teacher/student relationships, and I've written a book about the difference my own first grade teacher made almost fifty years ago.

A theme that runs through my speeches and articles, as well as my book, is that the nurturing, caring teacher is the one who makes the biggest impact on students. The adult who displays an unconditional regard for students and their learning is "the one" who will be remembered as making a difference in the life of a child. And I'll stick to those words. But I had a conversation with someone a few days ago who had an interesting twist to the story of teachers making a difference.

She told me that as she thought back over her life, she knew the teacher who was the reason behind her eventually becoming successful - an educator, now working on her doctorate - as opposed to becoming a juvenile deliquent taking a destructive path to nowhere. That teacher was a high school math teacher, and my friend was not a good student, particularly in math. Growing up in poverty, she didn't have the tools she needed to be successful in school, and she was not confident about her abilities in math. I waited for her to tell me how this teacher encouraged her, hovered over her desk and pointed to numbers on her paper, giving her a quick hug before moving on to the next student.

That's not what came next. She told me instead that this teacher would often humiliate her in front of the class, would admonish her for incorrect answers, and would mistreat her in unthinkable ways. She said it was during that year that she decided to focus her energy on doing whatever was necessary to be successful in school. She woke up every morning determined to be a stellar student, a student who wouldn't give that teacher the opportunity to humiliate her in front of her peers.

"She pushed me to be great," she said.

Years later, she gave that teacher a call to tell her that she had, literally, changed her life. The teacher did remember her but made no mention of her drive and determination. Instead, she learned that my friend's current job isn't inside a classroom; it includes mentoring and training other teachers. The math teacher displayed some old habits when she ridiculed my friend: "Well, you're not even a teacher." Some things never change.

All teachers have the opportunity to make a difference in the life of a child. I've said before that many times we don't even know the impact we've made. Once I was walking in a local shopping mall when I was approached by a lady who identified herself as the mother of a former student. As she went on and on about my class, how much I meant to her son, and so on, I was horrified that I didn't remember him. His name didn't even sound familiar. But I listened and nodded, hoping she'd say something that would spark a memory.

Finally, she said, "You don't know this...but you're the reason my son made it through seventh grade. He was struggling that year, having a hard time with peers, was so depressed I thought he was suicidal at times, but he enjoyed your class and wanted to come to school because of it." My mouth fell open and my brain was spinning. How could I have had that type of impact on a kid and not even know it?

The point is...we do make a difference. We have the honor and the responsibility of making a difference with every child we teach, every day they sit in our classrooms. Luckily, my friend had an inner drive that pushed her to make something positive out of a negative experience. And luckily, I was able to impact a student in a very important way, even though I was unaware of it and had no memory of the student years later.

How will the difference you make as a teacher be remembered? Will the story your students tell about you be positive or negative? Think about that as you walk through those classroom doors every day. What an amazing opportunity...

Bring It!

2011-04-11T14:24:00.006-04:00

Right now, sitting here in an office in my school, where down the hall I worked through the years to inspire struggling readers to greatness, I have never wished to be back in the classroom more than I do right now. Right now this very minute! But not for the reasons you think.

Ever since I was pulled to serve as a "Teacher Ambassador" when I was named North Carolina's Teacher of the Year in 2008, I have, of course, missed kids. Even though I've grabbed up opportunities in the past three years to get myself back in front of the little boogers, I have not had my own classroom since that time. So, yes, I listen intently every day in the hopes that I'll hear the administrators' walkie talkies popping: "Seventh grade is moving..." so I can walk out in the hall and inhale children. So, yes, I do miss the kids, but that's not my motivation today.

I also miss my own learning communities, the language arts teachers I planned and collaborated with...you know, the ones who encouraged me to dress like Britney Spears on our Genre Jam day. Luckily, now that I'm serving as a "teacher-on-loan" to our state education department, I have been able to set up my office in the same building where that "jam" occurred...which means I see my collegues often and can get my collegiality fix. I'm still there for all the social gatherings - the after-school baby showers and book clubs - and some days I just get up from this desk and walk into their classrooms. My friends, and their students, are accustomed to my drop-ins. But I'd really like to sit down and plan again, to look at assessment data and put our heads together to figure out what will enable our students to grow. But that's not why I'm longing for the classroom right now.

I also miss the actual act of teaching, too, and all the stuff that goes along with it: room decorating, lesson planning, assessing, re-teaching, re-directing, explaining, listening, counseling, hugging...I do miss all that. I even miss faculty meetings.

But none of those are the reasons I'm wishing I could be back in my own classroom today. During the current tumultuous times, I want to be there to join in with all those educators out there showing the world it can be done: teachers can and will continue to provide more with less, to survive in conditions that are demoralizing and demeaning, and to make ends meet with frozen salaries and pink slip threats.

I see it daily in my school: teachers continue to advocate for kids while working from dark until dark to plan innovative lessons all while maintaining positive relationships with kids. In short, teachers continue to make a difference even as policymakers negatively impact working conditions by making decisions that raise class size and cut positions, all while raising standards for performance.

Yes, I wish could have my own classroom during these chaotic times. I truly believe that as the craziness would swirl around me, I would feel pushed even harder to do what's right by kids. Threaten my job? I'd keep working until they dragged me away, still clutching the active board marker. Continue to reference "bad teaching?" I'd spend countless hours working to get better and better, sharpening my teaching skills by staying in touch with cutting edge research and technology. Decide to make my students' test scores public, along with my name?

At that I would stand in front of my classroom and talk to myself using the language of my middle schoolers: "Girl, you GOT this!" Then I'd look out the window toward the world and shout,

"BRING IT!"

International Sound Bites!

2011-03-26T20:00:00.011-04:00

I was delighted to receive an invitation from the Council of Chief State School Officers to attend the International Summit on the Teaching Profession that was held in New York City on March 16-17, 2011. Thirteen State Teachers of the Year (three of whom became National Teachers of the Year and several finalists in the bunch) represented America's teachers at the summit that brought delegates from fifteen countries to meet with the delegation from the United States to talk about teaching.

I was star-struck upon entering the room and seeing our Secretary of Education Arne Duncan (even though I don't always agree with his politics.) At 6'5" he looms large anyway, but he had quite the presence in the room full of dignitaries as others clambered to speak to him. Also members of the US delegation were NEA President Dennis Van Roekel and AFT President Randi Weingarten. Marguerite Izzo, 2007 New York Teacher of the Year, served as the teacher representative, welcoming the other delegations to her state.

Linda Darling-Hammond, Professor of Education at Stanford University, was present as well and wrote about the experience in a eloquent manner that I won't attempt to match. Instead, I'll share the "sound bites" that I wrote down or sent out to the Twittersphere on those two days.

Arne Duncan began by saying that the goal of the summit was to "strengthen and elevate the profession" and that it shouldn't have taken this long to "get to this day."

Here are a few quotes from representative countries:

Brazil - "The dignity of the profession has to do with more than salary."

Canada - "It's important to further explore professional development for teachers and roles that school boards, schools, and teachers play."

"We should stop talking about teachers and instead talk about teaching. We need to talk about the skills of teaching."

China - "We must create an atmosphere of protecting teachers and continue to elevate teachers."

"The movement around the world is education for all. We must be careful it doesn't become test scores for all."

"Teachers must support reforms in order for them to work."

Denmark - "Teacher evaluation doesn't have to be so difficult. Principals should talk to teachers about their teaching."

Estonia - "We must invest in education."

Finland - began by saying, "We're proud of our teachers."

"The climate of the school and school leadership are the most important factors. Also, teachers need time to study, to have formal continuous learning."

"Only one in ten who want to teach actually get to become teachers. All must have master's degrees. 6,000 applicants for 600 jobs."

"There are no national tests in Finland."

"Teachers are considered experts of their work, academic professionals."

Japan - "Teachers are the vital force in education."

Netherlands - "We have secured autonomy of schools. We need to secure autonomy for teachers, but it's important to have accountability."

Norway - "We must respect and listen to teachers. We must raise the status of teachers."

"Curriculum doesn't change what happens in the classroom."

Poland - "We're inspired by these discussions of leadership and teamwork."

Singapore - "It's important to look at principals and how effectively they 'rally their team.'"

"Evaluation should be formative, not summative."

Slovenia - "We need cooperation between unions and ed leaders."

UK - "Evaluation shouldn't be so individual; it's like surveillance. Teachers should observe each other for higher impact."

"The voice of teachers is the heart of public policy."

"We need a system that's aligned and coherent. We need to trust teachers and design improvement WITH teachers."

US (Gene Wilhoit - Executive Director, Council of Chief State School Officers) - "It's inspiring for sixteen sovereign nations to come together to talk about the future of our countries by talking about our children."

"Developing school leaders who in turn develop good teachers is the way to go about it."

"The voice of teachers is the heart of policy."

Arne Duncan - "We've got to get better faster than we have before."

Dennis Van Roekel - "In US we have charter schools in an effort to provide autonomy. Only 17% do better than regular public schools. Most do about the same. Some do worse."

"We need to get the voice of teachers there...their perspective, create their vision. That voice should be in the room."

"There's so much conversation about the profession of teaching. Everyone's an expert because they WENT to school."

Randi Weingarten - "States are heirarchal instead of horizontal."

"Professional development and teacher learning should not be left to chance."

"Those closest to kids - teachers, parents - have the least amount of voice in policy."

"Historically we've had 'drive-by evaluation.' Now we have 'observation by test score.'"

Andreas Schleicher, Special Advisor on Education Policy to the Secretary-General, OECD - "The research shows that teacher evaluation doesn't change anything."

Fred Van Leeuwen, General Secretary, Education International - "Testing is a teacher's tool, not a political device."

Marguerite Izzo, 2007 New York Teacher of the Year - "I've waited a long time to be at this table. I'm proud to represent America's teachers here."

An audience member from the UK - "Teachers aren't afraid of evaluation. They're afraid of being evaluated by people who don't teach, who haven't for a long time, and who don't know what they're doing."

Fernando Reimers, Professor of Education at Harvard - "Many countries mentioned the need for teacher autonomy, teachers being allowed to design curriculum, plan lessons, and make professional decisions. Pushback - in these days of Facebook, Twitter, etc., do we really do anything alone? Is autonomy irrelevant?"

All agreed: We need a systematic approach to education. We need to get the voice of teaching to the table.

On teacher evaluation: We stress a focus on collaboration, but we evaluate individual teachers.

Secretary Duncan ended the summit by saying, "We have to collectively create the next generation of innovators and entrepreneurs."

Many of us asked, "What's next? What will come of these discussions?"

I did see the Secretary taking notes, and I sincerely hope that we have learned from countries that respect teachers and hold them in high esteem.

But we all know we have a long way to go...

On Seeing Michael...

2011-03-13T16:45:00.007-04:00

The first time I saw Michael he was entering my morning reading group. He was a sixth grader, a few months into the school year, and I didn't know him. In ten seconds' time after coming in the classroom door, he was an inch from my face yelling at me, and I was struggling to maintain my composure while turning to grab a discipline referral notice off my desk. Suddenly, two students I did know, and with whom I had worked really hard at developing relationships, jumped to my defense and threatened to give Michael a beating if I gave the word. I didn't.

This reading group was part of our whole school literacy program. We rotated sixth graders around in small groups every three weeks during the first thirty minutes of the day. I was focusing my instruction on reader's theatre and short plays; I had hoped to engage my students in some fun activities while slipping in reading strategies at the same time.

Being able to teach in a way that was a little different from my run-of-the-mill remedial reading curriculum was exciting. Greeting a new group of kids that included some I didn't know was challenging. Occasionally there would be an issue as a result of not having had that first-week-of-school-get-to-know-you time. And this, of course, was part of the problem with Michael.

To be honest, I don't remember why he got mouthy with me from the beginning of that class. Most likely I told him to sit down in a way that rubbed him wrong, and it was clear that he didn't want to be in that classroom anyway. Later, I would understand more: Michael was a sixth grader who read on a first grade level.

For years as a middle school teacher I have listened to my colleagues lament over "what those elementary teachers are sending us." I've also been at the receiving end of high school teachers' "concerns" about the students I've sent them. The problem is clear: there are middle school students who can't read on grade level, which is a problem itself, but because of that deficiency, they're angry. That anger displays itself in a myriad of ways. Students may lash out, like Michael did when entering my reading classroom, or they may shut down and refuse to participate in activities or do classwork and homework.

I did eventually develop a strong relationship with Michael, beginning on the very day he lost his temper with me. We had one of those heart-to-heart talks that caring teachers initiate, and then I used all of my reading assessment tools to determine what exactly was going on. As a reading specialist, I know that middle school children are usually deficient in one (or more) of three areas when they struggle in reading:

- They are unable to recognize words immediately (in a fraction of a second as my graduate professor explained) and depend on "sounding out" which is time consuming and laborious for middle school texts. They can't, for example, look at the word "interesting" and know what it is. They revert back to first grade phonics lessons and stretch the word out - "in-ter-est-ing."

-They recognize the words but don't have enough prior knowledge or content knowledge to understand what they mean. The example I use most often is "prairie." I've had hundreds of students who can tell me the word in a second but who have no clue what a prairie actually is. Because they live in the Southeastern United States, they've never seen a prairie and, unfortunately, these treeless tracts of land aren't commonly used as settings for popular teen television shows or videos. (And they've never found the joy I found as a child in my church's library while reading all the Little House books.)

-They struggle with activities that involve processing the print - like paying attention to the text, visualizing what they're reading, and using an "inner voice" to actually "hear" what they're reading.

Last year, when Michael was in eighth grade, I assessed him again. This time he scored almost at grade level on language comprehension (he knew what the words meant) and print processing. But he recognized words only up to a third grade level. Luckily, I was asking him to read short passages that didn't wear him down as he tried to decipher the text. But we both knew that what he would be required to read in high school would be too difficult, that he would continue to struggle as he had all along.

I gave him some tips for practicing his word recognition skills, including internet word games and flash cards, but he told me that he didn't need high school anyway. His father, he said, had taught him to be a master mechanic. He would be able to make all the money he needed one day, working with a skill he already possessed, one that didn't require a high school diploma. I talked to him about other benefits to continuing in school, the life skills he would learn along the way, the fun he would have participating in the social events that go along with high school.

"It'll be the time of your life," I told him, realizing all along that maybe it was the time of my life. I didn't struggle to read.

"I don't need it," he answered.

Yesterday, while driving in our school's community, I got behind a school bus. I slowed at the flashing lights and familiar arm as it stretched across the road. As I came to a stop, I recognized one former student after another hopping off those bus steps onto the grass and it hit me: this is a high school bus!

One by one, they walked by my car and waved at me. And then...the last one...with an ear-to-ear grin...Michael.

I waved excitedly (I wanted to jump out and hug him), and as I continued down the street I kept repeating one thought in my head:

That bus came from the high school. That means Michael's still there. And he's smiling.

Maybe he'll graduate one day after all. I can only hope.

"Mama...I found Ida..."

2011-02-24T16:49:00.011-05:00

It was 1999 when Mama mentioned Ida again. Daddy had been diagnosed with cancer but hadn't gotten really sick at that point so she was reflecting on getting older, how quickly things change, and just mentioned she'd like to know what had happened to her friend.

I had heard stories about my mother's friends all my life. Juanita, Deloris, and Ida had been Mama's roommates when they were seventeen. World War II was bringing bad news left and right as my mother watched the entire male representation of her high school graduating class leave and go to war, so these girls hung onto each other...for emotional and financial support...and for entertainment. They were the 1940's version of BFF's.

My mother and her friend Ida, in their younger days...
Ida on the left, Mama on the right

My mother met Ida when she was hired as a waitress at the Fairview Restaurant in Sanford, North Carolina. After that they lived together in a couple of different places, eventually leaving one house after awakening to the screams that accompanied an illegal abortion taking place in the next room. My mother has graphic memories of those screams, and of what a baby looks like when a pregnancy is terminated at six months, and that story probably kept me pure and chaste for longer than a lot of girls I know.

Not long after they relocated, a man came into the restaurant and offered to make both of them famous in New York. He was "an ugly man, with bug eyes," my mother said, and she didn't believe he was legitimate. But Ida did. And off to New York she went. She did, in fact, become a model, and soon my mother saw her picture in the newspaper: "She was standing there, holding an umbrella, looking so pretty."

My mother married a soldier, as they did in those days. "We were afraid they would go to war and die. So we married them too quickly; we didn't spend a lot of time getting to know each other. Ida 'cried and cried' when I told her I was getting married."

That marriage didn't last, but Ida's career took off. She eventually married a New Yorker and lived there until returning home in her later years. It was there I found her, after an internet search, in 1999. My mother called her, and she and Daddy visited, Ida cooking "grilled chicken on a George Foreman grill" at age 73. They kept in touch for awhile.

But then Daddy's cancer took its toll, and my mother's caregiving duties became overwhelming. After his death in 2004, Mama's health began to fail, too, as she moved more and more slowly, shuffling her feet as she went. But recently, after rehabilitation from a fall and a broken hip, she's been asking about Ida again, although her friend's phone number has been long misplaced. She says that more and more of her friends are gone now; she sometimes feels that she is the "only one left."

So a few months ago, I returned to the internet, only to find that Ida's address listed was the same place where that chicken dinner was held, about an hour away from my mother and me, but there was no phone number this time to accompany it. I searched through obituaries, finding none that matched. I even drove to Ida's house, only to find it closed up as if uninhabited. I assumed she had moved to some type of elderly assisted living facility.

A few weeks later, while driving out of town in that direction, I drove to the house again. A gentleman answered the door this time and said that the lady who had lived there before was gone, but he didn't know where. He directed me across the street to another elderly lady, one who would surely remember her friend.

The nice lady let me in immediately, with no fear for her safety, even though I was a total stranger. As I asked her about Ida, she said, "Oh, I remember her!" I asked if she knew where she went. The lady replied, "Who?" I started over. Our conversation went around like this for several minutes. Then I told the lady goodbye and reminded her not to allow strangers in her home.

Last week I went back to the internet and actually paid a small fee to search for my mama's friend Ida. This time I was given her same address, the one I had visited...but another address also popped up. I hoped it was the address for an elderly care center, a place I could take my mother to visit Ida, a place where she could make some more friends.

Today I had a chance to make the drive to that address. After driving in the rain, over and around winding country roads, I found myself in front of a beautiful, tall brick home in a residential neighborhood. A black lab barked at my approach, and I really felt that I was in the wrong place. No 84-year-old woman would live in a house like this. But I rang the bell anyway.

I said to the nicely dressed, middle-aged woman who answered the door, "I'm probably in the wrong place. I'm looking for Ida O'Neal. She was a friend of my mother's."

The lady's face fell, and she looked puzzled. "That's my aunt," she said. "I'm actually on the way out the door....to her funeral."

I almost fell off the porch.

I had looked and looked for the girl whose picture sits on my mother's end table in her den. And I had found her...on the day of her funeral.

Ida's niece went on to tell me that her aunt had been in assisted living for five years because she was suffering from Alzheimer's. She had died four days before and would be buried in the next hour, not enough time for me to drive and pick up my mother and get her back there. Not enough time for Mama to accept the news.

I was invited in, and I signed the guest book. I looked at a table full of pictures of a lady who had been on my mind for months. I kept thinking, "I'm too late, too late. I'm too late to give my mother a piece of her youth back, too late to give her someone to talk to in her last days, too late to tell Ida goodbye."

I thanked Ida's niece and told her how sorry I was. I drove away numb and shaking toward my mother's house and pictured myself sitting down beside her on her couch.

"Mama," I would say. "I found Ida..."

What About The Children of Wisconsin?

2011-02-21T13:19:00.010-05:00

In case you've taken a Waldenesque break in the woods and don't know it, there is quite the uprising being played out in the Wisconsin legislature these days. You can read about it all over the place, but you may get different versions depending on who's doing the reporting.

Some say the Governor has rushed to pass a budget that will strip unionized workers, including teachers, of their collective bargaining rights. The Governor says Wisconsin is broke, and he has no other recourse but to take away benefits and union bargaining rights from public workers.

One side says Wisconsin wasn't broke until this rookie Governor gave tax breaks to his big-business pals. The other side is pointing fingers at fourteen legislators who have fled town so that a voting quorum can't be reached.

The blogosphere and Twitterworld are hot right now, with points of view being fired off from all directions.

And then this morning, an intelligent former student, an adult now with a child of her own, posted on Facebook in a respectful manner:

"Are there scab teachers teaching the kids in Wisconsin? If there is no one watching out for the education of those children, shame on those teachers. I admit that I don't fully understand what they're protesting, but can someone explain to me what it is that's more important than the future of the children that are being left out in the cold?"

She continued with a comment to her own post:

"Please do not think that I am anti-teacher in any way. I am just trying to figure out why the kids are of such little importance. Please someone help me understand this."

Here is my response to her:

Dear Kristen,

Because we live in a Right-to-Work state, teachers here in North Carolina have a hard time understanding the ins and outs of collective bargaining. We don't have teacher unions and, therefore, are at the mercy of our education associations (and their lobbyists), our governor, and our state legislators when it comes to benefits and pay. We have to hope that we've voted the right folks into office.

So I don't claim to be an expert about what's going on in Wisconsin. But I know teachers in Wisconsin, and I know children in general. I have to believe that what the students are learning is more powerful than any history lecture they may have had the opportunity to hear in the past.

I've taught the Civil War, I've taught the Civil Rights Movement including Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr's I Have a Dream Speech, and I've taught all about apartheid in South Africa. Although my students have always appeared somewhat interested, it has been apparent that they are so far removed from either the place or the time (or both) that they don't really grasp the meaning. Oh, I try to make these events relative. We stand in a circle and hold hands - Black, White, Hispanic alternating - and I tell them that when I was in elementary school, this type of activity would have been illegal in the South. They don't get it. They don't believe it. It feels like a story to them. Fiction.

To the students of Wisconsin, this isn't a story. This is a real civil rights issue. And even if they don't know exactly why their teachers are missing, they do know that they are off fighting for what they believe in. Some students, referred to as the "soul of the protests," have even joined their teachers, staging sleepovers in the legislative building and waging war via social media. Some are joining forces, linking arm-in-arm to cheer like it's a Friday night football game:

"Everywhere we go-o-o-o,
people want to know-ow-ow
Who-o-o-o we ar-r-r-r-r-e,
a-a-a-a-nd we tell them,

We are stu-u-u-u-dents,

mighty mighty stu-u-u-dents.

FOR OUR TEACHERS,

FOR THEIR UNION!!"

The students of Wisconsin are learning the valuable lessons of free speech, standing up for a cause, and basing opinions on carefully sought out facts. I saw one of the fourteen legislators on the news this morning. Interviewed in the "undisclosed" hotel in Illinois where she was staying, this mother of two small children answered to leaving them at home by saying she hoped this experience would teach them to stand up for themselves some day.

I have a friend who teaches in Madison. You'd never meet a more open-minded, talented educator who loves everyone and embraces all types of ideas. This week she has been at the protests, subjected to name-calling and other harsh opposition. She believes she is representing what's best for her students, her family, and her state. But she has been called selfish and greedy because she merely wants to be able to advocate for herself when it comes to salary and benefits. Is this not a practice that occurs in the business world daily? Are teachers some type of sub-citizens, unable to make the same requests?

My friend, the peacemaker, has even stepped in between opposing protestors on the steps of the capitol in an effort to defend everyone's right to free speech. She has been called an idiot, a terrorist, a spoiled brat, and a knuckle-dragging mouth-breather.

This is how Americans are treating Americans. (Remember the Civil War? Now is it relative?)

Yes, Kristen, there is much for the children of Wisconsin, and the United States of America, to learn. I hope the parents of school age kids are talking to them about what they see on the news. I hope they will participate by sending emails to their elected officials or maybe even visiting the capitol themselves. History is happening in Madison, Wisconsin, and although the subject matter may be a history class lecture in a few years, right now it's real.

And I hope students there will never look at the Civil War or the Civil Rights Movement the same way again. Those events aren't just stories either.

Where is the Love?

2011-02-14T12:50:00.006-05:00

In 1972, on any given day, I would hear the song "Where is the Love," recorded by Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway, on my portable radio. It was popular, rising to #5 on the pop charts while taking the #1 spot on the soul and easy listening charts. Sometimes a song like that will find its way into the inner recesses of my brain and stay there, a repeating chorus that seems to grow louder and louder. I can't coax it out even when I try to sing the birthday song or "Jingle Bells" over top of it. It's still there - and today, Valentine's Day, "where is the love?" is pounding heavily on my eardrums as I attempt to work, eat, have a conversation...that song is IN THERE!

It was there, humming right along this morning, as I read an article about everyone's favorite former chancellor of the D.C. Public Schools, Michelle Rhee. I'm not a numbers kind of gal, but the best I can tell from my reading, under Rhee's leadership, 250 teachers were fired summer before last with 229 escorted out right after. Then 241 were fired for "performance-based reasons" just last summer. To that I must say, "where IS the love?"

This particular article addresses 75 probationary teachers in their first or second years who had not yet come to the end of their first two years of teaching, teachers who were being let go because they received "negative performance evaluations after their first year." And to add insult to injury, these teachers were only given a "brief letter" indicating they had been terminated; there was no reason given, no opportunity for growth afforded.

Thank goodness an arbitrator has ruled that these 75 teachers were "improperly terminated" so maybe they'll have a second chance. I can tell you from experience that second chances can be the ticket to finding an educator who is committed to the profession, who is willing to do whatever it takes to make a difference to children. I know - because that very teacher is me.

I was not evaluated in any way during my first year. But I can tell you I would've been the first on Michelle Rhee's hit list had I worked for her. I wasn't comfortable in my own skin as a teacher, 22 years old and teaching high school seniors. The year was so tough I resigned at the end of it and didn't return for seven years. And I found upon my return that age hadn't improved my classroom management skills. I was, in fact, evaluated during that year, and there were some "below standard" markings on that final evaluation.

But I didn't get fired.

I got help.

First I found myself an unofficial mentor, a teaching wizard across the hall who held children's attention like he was a rock star. I watched everything he did and emulated every move he made. To this day, I pull from things he taught me, catching myself thinking of his words during classroom situations somewhat like we hear our parents' voices from long ago: "Don't run with scissors," "Look both ways before crossing the street."

The next year I had a real live "official" mentor, and I was at her classroom door daily with every "What do I do?" and "Do you have this?" and "How can I make that better?" that I could conjure up.

Fast forward thirty years, and you'll find a teacher who just may have made an impact on a kid or two (and on a teacher or two for that matter.) So....what if I had been fired? Would it have made a difference? Who would've taught Juanita to read? Who would be taking money, right now, to a student in jail who I haven't taught in five years?

I wish we could look in our crystal teacher apple and see how these 75 teachers turn out. But we can't. What we can do is support them in every way possible, provide exemplary mentoring for them, ensure they have all the resources they need, and give them opportunities to develop over time...in short, show them the LOVE.

Today, Valentine's Day, my principal bought red velvet cupcakes for every staff member in the school. In our mailboxes we found candy and a note that read, "Happy Valentine's Day. I love you and Peace."

I wish love and peace to Michelle Rhee as she practices her "tough" version of school reform. I just hope she doesn't continue to destroy young teachers in her path as she goes. So to her I have to ask, Hey Michelle, where is the LOVE?

Dream a Little Dream...

2011-01-28T20:28:00.013-05:00

I have to admit I'm hooked on reality television...well, not ALL reality television shows, just a couple of select ones. There are times when mindlessly staring at a screen offsets the intensity of the day. So stare I do.

Recently, I've been watching American Idol, a singing competition that highlights contestants who are singing in front of a team of judges. At this point in the season, the judges have the task of choosing which of the contestants are invited to continue in the competition, which ones will be allowed to travel to Hollywood and compete against others who are lucky enough to be invited, too.

What I've noticed during this particular season is that men, women, boys, and girls alike are crying crocodile tears, some begging, BEGGING, for the chance to make the Hollywood trip.

"Please. Puuhhhh-llllleasssseeee," they beg. "This is my DREEEAAAMMMMM. I've been dreaming to sing my entire LIFE!"

Interestingly, the minimum age limit has been reduced this year. Some of these dreamers have been dreaming for all of 15 years.

I continually talk to my students about dreams. I have all the staples of a middle school classroom: the future NFL and NBA stars, the rappers-to-be, the singers, dancers, and celebrities in the making.

I ask my NBA stars in training how many hours they practice every day, how long they dribble and pass after school. They grin and tell me they don't practice. Some aren't even on the middle school basketball team.

I continue by asking them if they think the NBA Fairy is going to show up on their porches, knock on their front doors, and then tap them with a wand. Poof - you're now a player in the NBA.

It's at this point that I draw my diagram on the board - my "Dream Alignment Diagram." First, I draw a big circle on the board, near the top. In the circle I write the word "DREAM." I tell the students, "This is it. Your dream. Whatever your dream is...it's right here in this circle."

Then I draw arrows, beginning at the bottom of the board and pointing up toward the circle. I tell them that if they really want to reach their dreams everything they do must be pointing toward them. We discuss what those arrows represent: practice, work ethic, focus, etc.

Then I draw an arrow pointing straight to the side.

"Oh!" I say. "You don't want to do your work in school? You just took a detour away from your dream."

Then I reach to the other side and draw another horizontal arrow. "Think you need to get in a fight and end up in In School Suspension? There's another detour!"

I refer to the Dream Alignment Diagram periodically throughout the year, especially when it's apparent that my tweenagers need to focus. And I tell them that their dreams will not fall into their laps. Attaining them will take a great deal of work and an awful lot of time.

Dreams are not for the lazy. Dreams are not for the impatient.

And dreams are not for beggars.

They're for those who are committed to doing whatever it takes to make things happen.

And that means all their arrows point up. All the time.

Welcome to Broadway!

2011-01-04T12:51:00.007-05:00

I just tossed my mother's 2010 calendar into the dumpster. I hated to do it. It was entitled "Birds of the Wild" and there was a cover picture of a beautiful red bird sitting in snow. The toss itself was symbolic: Goodbye 2010! What wonderful changes can I make in 2011? And I knew deep down in my teacher heart - something HAS to CHANGE!

I'm not a confrontational person. I'm a peacemaker. And I can usually understand both sides of an argument. I have the utmost respect for all opinions and will defend to exhaustion anyone's right to have them.

But this past year has made me weary. I'm a soldier in what some have called "teacher wars." We have been participating in an ascending battle over the definition of effective teaching, whether teachers should be evaluated on test scores, whether we are highly qualified as determined by federal law, whether our schools are failing our children, and on and on.

Today I have on a red shirt - it's Red for Public Ed Day! This peaceful way of promoting education is only one of many ways I've chosen to fight the nay-sayers. I have blogged and panel discussed and webinared and essay written to promote public education. But as I watched that calendar sail into the trashy abyss, I realized that I have to do something else.

I have to dance.

The energy I expended being mad at Michelle Rhee this past year, for example, was energy I could've used to push my grandchildren on the swingset. The blood pressure numbers I earned after watching the trailer for Waiting for Superman could've looked much different if I had offset them with exercise and healthy eating.

A new doormat I recently purchased reads "Live, Laugh, Love" not "Hate, Be Stressed Out, and Die." So things are changing in 2011.

I just signed up for a dance class called "Broadway Dance." I'll be learning choreography to show tunes; I'll be high-kicking in production numbers - I'll be living, laughing, and loving!

Oh, I'll still stay on top of what's going on in the education world. And I'll probably continue to get angry at the injustices that teachers have to endure. But then I'll dance to "I Hope I Get It" from A Chorus Line and get my mental bearings straight.

By the way, I did grab that calendar out of the dumpster. The pictures will be recycled, new artwork for my office. And as for me, I'll continue to wear Red for Public Ed, and like that red bird in the snow, come out of the abyss and find a new life.

Only this time I'll have dancing shoes on.

Snow Day!

2010-12-26T13:57:00.004-05:00

Christmas brought the gift of snow this year, not a commonplace occurrence in the South. Being trapped inside (I'm not much of a sledder or skater or bundle-er-upper), brings the opportunity to read and write, activities that have to be pushed aside during regular life routines. I've pulled out some "snow pieces" that I've written in the past couple of years. Maybe this year's snow will inspire me to write some more....

This one won me a fourth place nod one year in the Carolina Women's Writing Contest:

Oxymoron

"There's snow on the beach,"

he announced, walking in.

I turned to see him,

a mixture of ice shaving on eyelash,

salt spray on skin,

and, somehow, the words don't connect -

beach...snow...

the two images in an abrasvie refusal

to meet as one.

I looked at him...puzzled...

seeing pictures of a younger man

by the ocean,

forgotten images

working to share

the same scrapbook

with this picture, this man,

the one with the snow peppered hair.

The image now warms me -

snow - and - beach.

Morning Snowbird

A bird

was heard.

Snow was falling

down.

Snow was falling.

Bird was calling,

making spring-like

sounds.

Making spring,

flapping wings;

Bird protests the

snow.

Bird protests;

I can't rest.

I'll just get up and

go.

(That one is a true story about a bird waking me up a few winters ago...)

Precipitation Alliteration

spring brings

luminous lightning,

threatening thunder,

and

rhythmic rain.

but

winter brings

SNOW:

the weather whisperer.

(I hope you all are enjoying the quiet of snow today. Take some time to read...and write!)

Not My Great-Grandmother's Teacher Working Conditions

2010-12-05T09:56:00.009-05:00

In my early years as a teacher, the words “working conditions” would take me to thoughts of lower level needs: access to adult bathrooms, telephones to call parents, adequate planning time, and reasonable workloads (and my great-grandmother's duties of filling the woodstove and scrubbing the floors of the classroom in 1903). But a new report released by the Center for Teaching Quality has continued to change my way of thinking; the phrase “teacher working conditions” represents a more global perspective of teaching, what teachers need in order to be effective in a larger sense. Yes, teacher working conditions are much more complex than bathroom access.

Transforming School Conditions: Building Bridges to the Education System that Students and Teachers Deserve is the latest TeacherSolutions report released by the Center and written by fourteen accomplished teachers from urban districts across the country. The report focuses on research-based principles that will “undergird sustainable and effective teaching reforms.”

With recommendations on areas where schools, districts, teachers, as well as school administrators need to focus, this team of accomplished teachers has covered everything from student learning growth to how to embrace school communities as partners.

The report begins with a look at teacher education programs and how well they are preparing teachers for the realities of the classroom. It is not surprising to read that teachers are entering the profession unprepared to teach the second language learner and unprepared to become “student assessment experts.”

Other tidbits aren’t shocking: “Teacher attrition has always been an issue and research shows that the decision to stay or leave is directly related to teacher working conditions” while others are: “Teacher turnover is costing the country 7.3 billion each year.”

I was delighted to see a reference to the North Carolina Teacher Working Conditions Survey, a process that empowers me, as a North Carolina educator, to have my voice heard on everything from how supportive my administrators are to how helpful my professional development is. I'm not surprised that this team of teachers agrees that we must provide a way for teachers to share concerns about the workplace.

In addition, the report points to “five ways in which conditions in schools, state and local education agencies, and preparation programs are holding back student learning and a 21st century teaching profession:

1. Recruitment and preparation pathways for teacher candidates;
2. Assessment and evaluation systems for students and teachers;
3. Development of professional networks within and across schools to support teaching and learning;
4. Empowerment and professional leadership for teachers; and
5. Investment of community resources to develop and support effective schools."

This report is written by teachers who truly understand the obstacles to effective teaching and who also recognize what is right about schools today. For example, teacher residencies are touted as meaningful to pre-service teachers who are given time to understand the job from top to bottom and beginning to end as they are training “on the job” during an entire school year. There are also discussions on the importance of mentoring, the need for multiple measures of teacher evaluation, and the strength that comes from working in Professional Learning Communities.

Invest a little time into some meaningful professional development and read what fourteen of America’s great teachers are saying about working conditions in our schools. We, as educators, are lucky to have the Center for Teaching Quality who continues to utilize the talents of teacher leaders and impact education policy in our country.

Saving D, Part 2

2010-11-05T23:49:00.009-04:00

I'm in a movie. That's it - I'm reading from a script. I must be playing a character because I can hear the words I'm saying, but I don't recognize "parole officer" and "turn yourself in" and "house arrest" as words I would ever need to say.

My former student D is eighteen now. He called me a week ago to tell me many things, all of them troubling:

1. He was just released from prison.

2. He has a four-month-old son who's in foster care.

3. He currently owns only three articles of clothing.

4. He wants to go back to school and graduate, but it would be too embarrassing (see #3).

5. He really wants a job to the point that he's harrassing people, but no one will hire him.

His last words at the end of the call - "Mrs. Rigsbee, can you help me?"

I wrote about some of D's troubles two years ago. Whenever I see him or talk to him, I cry. It's so sad to witness the stereotype of the young, smart kid growing up in poverty and heading in the wrong direction. I cry because I always thought if I cared enough, if I encouraged him enough, he would beat the odds.

He didn't.

And I cry because I don't know what to do to help him now. But this time I start by doing a Google search - I find that he was arrested in April for armed robbery. Later I learn that he was there but had no weapon; two others actually carried out the crime. D was convicted of "accessory after the fact."

Next I do a Department of Corrections Offender search. There's his name, just like it used to sit in my grade book, on his rarely turned in papers, and on the suspension list. I now know his DOC number, his age, his offense, and the fact that he's out of prison...on parole.

That leads me to my next step. I call my county's parole office and find the name of the officer I need in seconds. He returns my call within an hour.

When I have health issues, I pride myself on being educated on what may or may not be going on with my body. I do research to the point that I feel confident that I can converse with a medical doctor to communicate what I need. Not so much with a parole officer.

I know that I don't have the language I need to articulate what I want - some ideas about resources for helping D. As it turns out, it doesn't matter. Halfway into my first sentence, the officer interrupts me: "The thing is....he's at large." I have to think about that one a minute, but finally I get it. He's out there somewhere, they can't find him, and they want him. My heart sinks.

The officer tells me that there are three warrants for D, and he better get in touch before it's too late. I had called because I wanted to help D get a job and some clothes and a place to live. Instead I find myself asking for time...time to find him so I can encourage him to turn himself in. The parole officer gives me one day.

I call D's phone, but it's turned off. I go through my phone frantically and find the number he used when he called me last week. I have no idea whose phone I'm calling, and I'm terrified. A girl answers. I tell her who I am and what I want. She mumbles, barely audible, "Hold on." Another girl comes to the phone. Same scenario.

Finally, "Mrs. Rigsbee?" I talk, words tumbling out of my mouth one after another - "turn yourself in"..."do the right thing"..."I'll help you through this...."

He says, "You don't know how they do. They lie."

I say, "Don't talk without a lawyer. You have a right to have a lawyer present." (I shake my head at the phone. Since when am I Kate Beckett on Castle?)

He resists.

I continue, "D, you've hit rock bottom. You have two ways you can go. You can make something of your life, or you can go to jail. What's it gonna be?"

One thing he wants me to know: "Mrs. Rigsbee," he says quietly. "About my armed robbery conviction...you know I could never hurt anybody, right?"

"I know, D," I answer, choking on tears again. We hang up so D can make his call. Soon he calls me back to tell me he's going to turn himself in.

And now I wait. I wait for the ending to this movie I'm in. Years ago, I signed up to teach middle school kids, and now I'm the one getting "schooled" on life. I tell D I don't know anything about this world he lives in...all I know about what he's into is what I've seen on tv. He turns his face away from the phone and yells, "Hey, Mrs. Rigsbee thinks my life is a movie!"

Yea, D, and I just pray for a happy ending.

Givin' Halloween a Chance

2010-10-28T20:35:00.006-04:00

I used to proclaim that Halloween was my least favorite holiday. First, as a single parent of young children, the celebration was yet another thing I did alone, from costume gathering to trick-or-treating to stomach soothing after too much sugar ingesting.

Also, as a young mother, it seemed to me that there was an unspoken competition when it came to putting costumes together. If I dared to show up to a pre-school party with my kids decked out in pre-fab costumes (some type of vinyl body cover and a plastic mask so popular in the 80's) there would be looks of pity and then whispers as one-by-one the other moms would shake their heads at my kids and then walk away, dragging their child-model in a handsewn costume with them. I'm not much of a competitor when it comes to things I don't know how to do. I decided then to hate Halloween and all the tricks and treats that went with it.

But perhaps the biggest reason I began to dread the orange holiday as soon as the first leaf yellowed is obvious - I TEACH MIDDLE SCHOOL! Are you kidding me? It seems my fate was incredibly twisted. 11-13 year olds are unteachable at Halloween! Right up there with Valentine's Day and Winter Break, the days surrounding that ghastly day have always been difficult. Candy gathered in the 'hood the night before means candy in the school the day after. And kids aren't even sneaky about it! A question about a character in a story was once drowned out by an across-the-classroom trade: "I'll give you my candy corn for your malted milk balls." Let's just say the rest of the class missed the "malted milk" part, and it took me the remainder of the period to settle them down.

But one year someone talked me into participating in our school-wide Halloween celebration. I resisted, but then she brought me the costume. Our school mascot was the Red Devils (since changed to Cardinals due to the hellish nature of the name), and the costume was a bright red, lycra unitard with matching headband/horns and a tail. It was so beautiful I couldn't resist. It looked like this, only sans the flames and wings:

There was a contest - one money prize for a teacher and one for a student. And we wore our costumes to school on Halloween Day. I absolutely cannot believe that I wore that skin-tight outfit to school. Yes, I was a 30-year-old very skinny teacher at the time. But STILL! What were my 7th graders thinking?

I tell you what they were thinking...that their teacher won $50 for the best costume! From then on, I was hooked. Halloween is awesome!! I even began to incorporate Halloween into our classroom activities. The students love our Fright Fair project; they all write scary stories, and then they're assigned projects that match their interests and skills. Some kids design, make, and deliver the invitations. Others design and then decorate the room.

On Halloween Day teachers come to hear story readings. The room is dark except for one small light in the middle of a story-telling circle and the orange lights that are weaved through the spiderwebs hanging on the walls and the whiteboard. Carrot cake is served to the visitors and a ghoulish time is had by all.

Last night as I sat on a hayride and watched my granddaughter (Cinderella) treat-or-treat, I thought Halloween is my favorite holiday!

Also known as....if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

To a Farmer Dying Young (with thanks to A.E. Housman)

2010-10-09T14:12:00.004-04:00

...Today, the road all runners come,

Shoulder-high to bring you home

And set you at your threshold down,

Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away

From fields where glory does not stay,

And early though the laurel grows

It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut

Cannot see the record cut

And silence sounds no worse than cheers

After earth has stopped the ears...

excerpt from "To An Athlete Dying Young"
A.E. Housman

I met him when we were both college freshmen. We graduated high school the same year in towns eight miles apart, and he was the kind of person who immediately made others feel they'd always known him. The freshman year is when the circle of friends widens - high school friends of dormmates come to visit, and soon the world is bigger and better. Such it was with Rob.

I was reading Housman poems in Freshman English back then, picking them apart, every word holding more meaning than a nineteen-year-old would originally think. I worked at learning how to get inside the mind of a poet...while Rob was across campus, learning how to breed cattle. Animal Husbandry he called his major. This city girl had never heard of it.

One weekend the future farmer took me to his family's farm. So many cows in one place! It was a dairy farm then, and Rob called me over to see the special cow, being milked just at that time. He said, "Look, this cow has a square hole." Just as I bent over to look at the hole, I got a face full of fresh milk. He laughed himself silly over that one, although I'm sure he'd pulled that trick thousands of times.

Later that afternoon, he took me for a ride through the country on his motorcycle, my first ride out in the open air like that. I was reminded of an Anne Morrow Lindbergh book I had recently read. She described her first airplane flight with her future husband, Charles. She talked about feeling so free, seeing everything from a different perspective...with the wind in her hair.

That's how that ride felt to me...and that day on the farm. I had a renewed perspective, one altogether different the next day when I poured milk on my cereal.

The years went by, like that wind on that day, and Rob and I went on with our lives, our marriages, and our families. But Rob Hogan taught me the meaning of simpler things, the love of farm animals, and what being kind to people is all about. I've seen him a couple of times over the years. We've laughed at how far we've come - with ever-growing families and responsibilities.

But yesterday when he died, I felt like we were still there - nineteen years old with our lives before us. To me, Rob will always be that college kid with the beautiful smile, even though now he's somewhere in a dreamy pasture, playing the square hole joke on angels.

Waiting for Pinocchio...to check his sources...

2010-09-26T07:06:00.008-04:00

The title of this blog changed along the way - it started as "Waiting for Pinocchio to SHUT UP!" But the seething anger I've been carrying around is so toxic I had to temper it lest I come across as short and snippy with friends, colleagues, and worst-of-all, the students in my school.

"Pinocchio" refers to the propaganda pushers who are speaking of public schools as if they themselves sit in the front row of Miss Kilpatrick's classroom every day and therefore are experts on the issues of education. In the process there is misinformation (read: lies) being broadcast across the country.

Educators have been speaking out, for example, about the movie Waiting for Superman (I won't include the link to the trailer because I refuse to promote it.) I did watch the preview...once...and will not watch it again. Basically it says that schools and teachers are failing and that charter schools are the answer to all of public education's problems.

I'm sure there are some amazing charter schools. There are also some lousy ones. Sound familiar? Can we not say that about non-charter public schools, private schools, churches, restaurants, medical facilities, and on and on?

Oprah even hung on to Waiting for Superman's cape and made sure her audience was made aware of how difficult it is to get "bad" teachers out of schools. Did you know that teachers receive tenure after two years? That's what Pinocchio said that day. Well, guess what? It takes four years in my state. Four. At the end of years one, two, and three, a principal can decide to "non-renew" a contract. It seems to be a secret that poor teachers can be let go.

Teachers have been weary for awhile now...taking the blame for the alleged "failure" in schools. We're not weary any more. We're mad.

But what can we do about a movie that says "Our schools are failing. Our teachers are failing"? I heard a principal yesterday say, "We're always the punching bag...always on our heels...we're never on our toes, punching ourselves..."

I think it's time to punch Pinocchio. Let's make our own movies. Grab a video camera and record a success story, a student talking about the public school experience that kept him in school, another talking about the teacher who made a difference. Let's edit all the clips together and make our own movie - Superman is HERE. I have my camera ready? Do you?

With the End in Sight...

2010-08-10T14:13:00.010-04:00

If you're in any way connected to education, you're beginning to feel a simmering force field of energy around you, and you know it's coming: the First Day of School.

I've been noticing it for awhile; I once was a Year-Round Calendar teacher, and I know how it feels to get those little prickles of excitement well before now. And as I've written before, the First Day is the BEST day (which is why I capitalize it like a holiday!) Blogs this time of year will be full of First Day activities and tips, and teachers all around are anxious with expectations on this the Happy New Year of Teaching.

This year, as you hand out insurance forms and Free/Reduced Lunch applications, I hope you'll think about another exciting time of a school year - the Last Day of School. As you look at your freshly scrubbed darlings sitting quietly (which is a good thing because you don't really know their names yet), think about what they'll look like, who they'll be, on the last day of school.

Chances are they'll be worn down and weary, many who worked dilligently but still failed standardized tests, many who've endured life-changing circumstances in their home lives - separation, divorce, domestic abuse, some who haven't fit in this year and are hoping for better things ahead...

I've written about Jamie who began the school year as a sixth grader, giddy with excitement, happy as a bird as my mother-in-law used to say. Fast forward to the end - Jamie was sullen, even weepy at times, over his parents' separation and pending divorce. He acted out in an effort to get attention of any kind, even negative. I didn't let him down. There were just days when he would push my buttons, and I'd end up calling his dad. Most days I was a listener and an advice-giver. But some days he wore me to the brink of exhaustion.

Teachers get worn down, too...tired of working extra hours for less pay, tired of health insurance costing more, but covering less, and tired of hanging from the ceiling fan to teach standards to kids, some who still don't pass standardized tests.

Last week I was on a beach vacation. I rode my bike just by a marshy area beautiful with blue water and green marsh reflections. I wrote the following about one particular morning:

Oak Island Goodbye

The pelican

has a choreographed

flight.

The pattern

is not a chance

meeting

of wind and wing.

Instead he flaps

rhythmically

just inches

above the water

then glides

on that glassy surface

until gravity

persuades the wings

to move again.

I watch

through sea oats

and grassy marsh,

looking over

sun-dotted water

and then make a vow:

Once I’m back

to my racetrack life...

speeding in circles

and getting nowhere...

I’ll remember

this place

and that bird

and this moment.

I’ll hold it

and think yet again

to slow down

and glide.

**************************************************

I challenge you to cherish those First Day children all year long. On the last day, look at them again and assess what your impact has been on their lives. In between...when you're weary and they're pushing buttons, think of that day and remember the freshly scrubbed darlings of nine months ago. Hold them like that as long as you can...

On Teaching "Broken" Children

2010-07-14T20:19:00.008-04:00

My son is getting married next month. In the whirlwind that is wedding planning, I find that I have to work through one more step than most mothers-of-the-groom. The fact that I'm no longer married to my son's father means that every decision involves a call or an email; I can't simply turn to my husband over in his recliner and ask him a question. He is not my children's father so he doesn't feel that his opinions on who-sits-where at the rehearsal dinner are needed.

All of this extra thinking and consideration for my ex and his wife have catapulted me straight into a period of reflection. As my son is about to marry, I wonder if he is damaged any by the life we chose for him, the every-other-weekend, changing-of-the-guard, who-am-I-with-for-Christmas-this-year existence that began for him when he was three.

As I think back about his life, I also think about my students in similar situations. Following is a plea to teachers who have students from what someone, at some point, coined "broken homes."

Dear Teachers,

I know it's annoying when your students don't bring in homework. I also know it's highly suspect when they claim to have left it at Mom's while they were spending the night with Dad. But I hope you'll be sensitive to this situation. It's a challenge to pack up kids - for the night and for school the next day - and deliver them halfway between two places at a previously determined time. Not only is it a challenge, but it hurts. Handing children off to the other parent is a situation that leaves one parent driving home feeling like someone's delivered a swift kick to the gut. And returning to the house to find it empty, except for toys on the floor and, oops, a homework paper on the kitchen table, is heartbreaking. Kids sense, and feel, the heartbreak, too. Unfortunately those feelings interrupt the organization process, and things are forgotten. Please think of that scenario whenever homework is missing from kids who live in two places. It'll get turned in...as soon as the guard changes again.

Also, be sure to do all the research you need to help you better understand which parent the student actually lives with (if not both), how often he/she sees the other parent, and which parent is the one you should contact about school related issues. I ask my students to write their own names and addresses on a note card on the first day of school and the names of their parents. I then ask them to circle the name(s) of the parent(s) with whom they live. I learned this lesson the hard way. Once a student wrote both parents' names on a card. After trying unsuccessfully to call the mother, I dialed the number beside the father's name. After I mentioned my student, the parent began screaming at me over the phone, telling me he hadn't seen the child in seven years. Yikes! I should've done my homework.

Last, although you should be sensitive and flexible when circumstances occur that are out of a child's control, don't let them play the "broken home" card every time they think they deserve more time, more attention, or lower expectations. I taught my kids that they had to work twice as hard at school because they received two sets of birthday presents. Okay, not really...but I did tell them that our home situation would one day make them stronger and would enable them to be loved by many more people - extended families, step-parents and step-siblings, half-siblings, etc.

Still, think about your "back and forth" students as you make decisions in your classroom. One day, one of them will be getting married, and someone will be working overtime to make sure everything runs smoothly.

Sincerely,

One Who Knows

Outsiders...Or Fitting Right In?

2010-06-09T13:35:00.011-04:00

Our eighth graders read the novel The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton. When it was first released in 1967, the book shocked young readers with its violence and lack of accepted family structure. The students at my school love it. They can't put it down until they're done reading it, and they sit on the edges of their seats watching the 1983 movie version that boasts stars-of-the-future like Patrick Swayze, Matt Dillon, Tom Cruise, and Diane Lane.

When I first taught the book, years ago, I thought my students would whine and complain...maybe call the fifties setting old-fashioned and boring. Instead, they sat enthralled and pondered romanticized versions of boys who live without parents and who run around the town with knives while smoking cigarettes non-stop.

Fast forward to last week. Another teacher asked me if I'd seen the YouTube video of a former student fighting in the middle of the street in her neighborhood. I couldn't believe such a thing was possible - that a student fight was recorded and placed on YouTube for the world to see - so I looked it up. I was suprised to find thousands of videos featuring student fights, and, yes, one of them included my former student.

What I saw on that video clip was horrifying. There's my student, who is being referred to as MadDawg, bouncing around like a boxer-in-training, air punching around another teenager's head. The other teen, referred to as "New Girl," was standing there, arms folded, telling my student that she doesn't want to fight. It's apparent that a crowd has gathered to watch the violence, obviously knowing ahead of time that the fight was scheduled. (This wasn't a situation where two teens got angry and fought in the heat of the moment.)

I was horrified as I watched the other girl say over and over that she's not there to fight and everyone should just go home. But the crowd wasn't having it. They continued to encourage the girls, saying things like, "I left my house for THIS? I was eating chicken!" Students in the crowd even push the two girls together several times, continuing to egg them on.

Finally New Girl had had enough. She picked up my student and slammed her onto the street. Then she pummeled her in the head a few times while yelling at her to go the ----- home! Finally she climbs off of her - meanwhile I can hear the crowd bullying my student about her lack of fighting skills. Apparently, that is just enough to encourage her to air-box the new girl again...who promptly slams her to the pavement again, this time putting her face close to my student's ear and repeating, "This is over. We're going home. This is over."

I watched as cell phones recorded the entire event and listened as the onlookers talked of being nervous because it appeared a neighbor had called the police. My student's sister, also a former student, then came into camera range; she's a beautiful girl with so much potential, and I watched her look right at home in the middle of this display of violence and stupidity.

It's no wonder eighth graders love The Outsiders - they aren't shocked by anything in it; instead they're comfortable. This is a world they understand.

In the movie Valentine's Day, Ashton Kutcher's character makes this comment: "Love is the only shocking thing left in the world." Apparently he's right. Violence is commonplace and accepted, even entertaining. Those participating aren't outsiders. They're part of our current culture.

But I think of my students and wish instead they were being shocked by love. And I wish YouTube would ban uploaded videos by underage kids. Somehow we have to stop giving kids, who aren't old enough to make responsible decisions, the opportunities to promote violence and to use it as entertainment. To me....that's what's shocking...

Once...

2010-05-30T19:04:00.010-04:00

He was twelve once. With a grin as big as the classroom he sat in, he'd rather hold a football than a girl's hand. I think he laid awake at night figuring out ways to torment the teacher. Once at school, he carried out his plans, bringing his friends Barry and Kris along for the ride.

His favorite ploy was to get the teacher off the subject. He'd ask about her children...try to get information about her love life, grinning all the while. One day the teacher saw him throw a football the length of the middle school field and thought This is a very special young man.

Brian Anderson was a special young man indeed. Continuing on to high school, he became a football and wrestling star. His infectious smile permeated the high school classrooms, football field, and wrestling mat. "A real character" is how his football coach described him. "Never a dull moment with Brian around," he said.

After high school he enlisted in the Marine Corps and asked to be among the first of the troops to descend on Iraq in 2003. He didn't want his buddy, who had orders to go, to be alone. He kissed his mother goodbye and traveled halfway across the world...only to lose his life on April 2, 2003. By then he was a man, but to his teacher, he was still twelve and sitting in that last seat in the middle row...

**********************************************************************************

He was in his early twenties once. He grew up on a farm in a rural North Carolina county, digging in the soil that produced the meals for his mother, four sisters, and two brothers. He was the oldest, the man of the family. A good-looking guy, he had a smile that made some country girls swoon.

Riddick Blackwood joined the Army in August of 1944, taking the same course as so many men in those days. He reported to Germany, leaving a young wife behind, to travel to a country he'd only heard about, a land altogether different from his rural homeplace.

He would lose his life in the single largest and bloodiest battle of World War II, the Battle of the Bulge. The War Department would deliver an official message to his wife and mother, and he would be buried in Holland. His family was never able to bring him home, focused now on his two brothers still serving - Truett, who was lying wounded in an English hospital and Bob, stationed in India.

Riddick Blackwood would never meet his nephew (his baby sister's boy) or his nephew's wife who thinks about him often...especially on days like today.

**********************************************************************************

Thank you, Brian and Riddick, for what you represent and for what you sacrificed. I continue to pray for the peace that you died for.

Itsy Bitsy Spider

2010-05-28T21:22:00.004-04:00

Remember that part in the movie Arachnophobia when the character played by Jeff Daniels mentions that there's no noise from the crickets? All of a sudden it's so quiet outside that the main character takes notice, oblivious to the fact that some creepy crawly creatures have snacked on all the insects in the land.

One day this past week I walked the halls of my school and noticed that same eerie sound. It rang out more loudly than the usual halls full of bustling children...the "he saids/she saids" of middle school class change, the laughter and joking, the "stop running, keep-to-the-right" characteristics of a school hallway.

Our huge eight-legged critter?

Testing.

I heard once that a first grader returned home from school one day during my state's End of Grade Tests (which we call EOG's) and announced, "The school was really quiet today. We had E-I-E-I-O's."

More like just O's....line after line of O's as in, "Fill in your circle completely. Be sure your mark is heavy and dark. If you erase your circle, do not try to redraw it."

Today I completed my fourteenth day of standardized testing. Next week there are makeups and retests and on and on - an army of arachnids taking over the schoolhouse and silencing the happy noises of the children.

Where's Jeff Daniels when you need him?

2010-05-22T14:01:00.002-04:00

I LOVE sports. LOVE 'em. From little league to middle and high school, college and professional...it doesn't matter. I enjoy the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat as much as anyone. I still get chillbumps when I ride by our county's high school football stadium on a Friday night. I can smell the grass on the field, the popcorn at the concession stand, and the sweaty players running to the locker room at the end of the game. I hear the band playing Chicago's "25 or 6 to 4" and can still remember the dance I used to do on the sidelines. I have season tickets to NFL football games and Triple A baseball...so famous in my town that a movie, Bull Durham, was filmed here.

I also love the Division I university that I attended. My daughter graduated from there 24 years after I did, and coincidentally, that was the same year I earned my master's degree there. She was a captain on the cheerleading squad and traveled the country when "our" team played in the NCAA tournament. To say I'm a fan is an understatement. In my area of the state the basketball rivalry is so intense that it can break up a marriage and everyone would understand.

I love my profession, too. This week my heart broke when I read about the local teacher who is half a paycheck away from homelessness and who is in danger of losing her job. Just as I was wiping away my tears, I read the following:

"With 11% unemployment in NC that includes 5400 educator jobs, the Senate's budget continues $14 million funding of our-of-state athletes' tuition. Out-of-state athletes cost upwards of $42,000 annually, mostly at taxpayer's expense. A starting teacher in NC makes $30,000 annually."

Did you just hear a needle scratch violently across a record (you have to be my age to understand that reference.) Seriously? Seriously? I can barely summon a response.

My husband says, "Yea, but how much do those athletes bring to our state?" And to that I say, "Not a damn thing if they hadn't had thirteen years of teachers and coaches training them to do what they do and be who they are."

I'm so mad I don't even have words...

Pushing Buttons

2010-05-07T21:04:00.007-04:00

I was in an airport bathroom recently...specifically, I was in a stall. I could hear a little girl somewhere near the sinks squealing, "I wanna push the button!" over and over and over. And over. The squeals escalated from a post-toddler whine to a pre-school shrill.

From my perspective, it was apparent that the little girl wanted to push the automatic hand dryer button. So I waited to hear the machine start up and pictured the air blowing across the little girl's head; surely, she would be just the right height for a new wind-blown hairstyle.

I never heard the hand dryer come on, but I did hear the little girl squeal her request repeatedly. But what I didn't hear was any acknowledgement from her mother. She had turned her little girl off.

The entire scenario reminded me of the summer of 1989, a month before my son's kindergarten year. By chance we ran into his first ever public school teacher in the shopping mall, just before school started. Coincidentally, the teacher had a son the same age as mine. And interestingly he was banging her on the head with a balloon the whole time we chatted.

It went something like this: "Yes, he'll need paper, pencils, a box of tissues, a glue stick..." BOP! "Oh, and don't forget about Open House...." BOP! "I'm so happy to have your son in my class this year..." BOP BOP!!!

The teacher never said a word to her son, and I decided she was accustomed to him, somewhat desensitized to his antics. During my restroom stall retreat, I thought back to that teacher and that little boy and thought about how my buddy out by the hand dryer was turned off, too. It was as if her mother didn't even notice her squeals, desensitized to shrill requests because she most likely hears them all day.

All of a sudden, in a bathroom stall in Baltimore, Maryland, it hit me. Lawmakers are turning the same deaf ear to educators. We've squealed about working conditions, salaries, and layoffs. Recently, we've taken to marching, walking out, protesting, and letter and editorial writing. But it's as if policymakers have their fingers stuffed in their ears, singing, "I can't hear you. I can't hear you..." Apparently, they are desensitized to our pleas.

So, finally on the plane and ascending upward and over Washington, DC, where so much of what impacts us as teachers is decided, I thought about how to get our message across in ways that are more difficult to "turn off."

First, I truly believe you get more with honey than vinegar. Angry outbursts and name-calling are the best ways to ensure that they won't hear what you say; they'll hear how you say it. Remain calm, state the facts, and have data to back it up. No squealing or whining allowed.

Next...learn from history. Dr. Martin Luther King's peaceful protests changed our country. Walk to the capitol if you like; carry a sign displaying your message. But don't communicate threats or yell obscenities. Hang on to your self control by thinking about the message you're sending to your students or your own children. We should all be role models for peace.

Also, use your 21st century technology skills and get your messsage out there so you can drum up support. Have you heard of California teacher Anthony Cody's Letters to Obama that got him an audience with Arne Duncan, the Secretary of Education? Mr. Cody's use of social networking helped him connect with educators all over the country and thus send a message to policymakers that can't be turned off.

Last, it's necessary to hit 'em where it's important, with stories of our students and our children. For example, my sixth grade student Jake has almost learned how to say his "r's" during this school year. But if the speech teacher's position is cut, he'll move on to high school sounding much younger than his actual age. Perla, my English Language Learner, will continue to struggle in school if her ESL teacher is moved elsewhere. And Andre and JoeJoe will have a difficult time learning in a classroom with 38 other kids. They've told me they do better in small groups. But fewer teachers mean crowded classrooms and less learning for Andre and JoeJoe.

So, yes, we do want to push their buttons. But first they have to hear our requests. We need to do whatever it takes to make that happen.

Teachers Who Make a Difference

2010-05-01T12:12:00.005-04:00

I've just completed my first ever Book Tour which included four states, six television interviews, a radio interview, and three book signings. But after all of that excitement, I was inspired when I checked my email after my trip. At the end of my book, Finding Mrs. Warnecke, I ask for readers to write me and tell me about their own "Mrs. Warnecke," the teacher who made a difference. I returned from my trip to hear from Susan, a teacher in the Virgin Islands:

Hey Cindi,

I tore through your book lent to me by my boss, Edney Freeman, Virgin Islands Teacher of the Year, and enjoyed it thoroughly. My Mrs. Warnecke was a teaching nun, Sister Mary Remy Revor, who I didn't encounter until I was 30 years old. She taught fabric arts at Arrowmont School of the Arts and Crafts in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, and in two weeks was able to undo all the negative messages I had received over the years about what art is supposed to be. "Never use pink and yellow together," was the rule according to my elementary school art teacher. The unspoken lesson in college was that men are the artists and women are the models. I dropped out of college after three years because I couldn't see the point.

Sister Remy taught me to take pride in my own work and to believe in myself. She shared everything she knew, no holding back secret tricks. With that positive experience under my belt, I continued taking art classes during the summer and eventually returned to college where I earned BFA Honors, was accepted into the MFA program as a teaching assistant (they paid me!) and started teaching high school art. Certification courses led to an MAE, but all the pedagogy in the world pales in comparison to the example set by Sister Remy. This is what I bring to my students.

Susan Edwards
Charlotte Amalie High School
St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands

(Thank you, Mrs. Warnecke and Sister Mary Remy Revor!)

The Forgotten Middle

2010-04-15T07:00:00.000-04:00

Once I was told I had to attend a workshop on reading instruction. Having just earned my master's degree in K-12 literacy, I was looking forward to the opportunity. Soon the text for the training arrived, and it was subtitled "Strategies for K-5 Reading," and somehow I knew - this would not the best workshop for a middle school teacher.

It happens time and time again. Middle school teachers continue to attend trainings that are geared toward elementary readers. I sat through another one today...learning about cute little phonics activities that aren't appropriate for eighth graders. Interestingly, the International Reading Association lists Adolescent Readers as a "very hot" topic. So why can't we go to a conference and find more than one "very hot" breakout session?

Today I returned home from the conference to find an interesting brochure in my mailbox; I saw the title "Units of Study for Teaching Reading." Then I saw the subtitle: "A Curriculum for the Reading Workshop: Grades 3-5." Ahhh. Again.

A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to look at the President's blueprint for the reauthorization of ESEA - aka NCLB. I have been looking forward to a new version of this legislation, a version that wouldn't be punitive to the hard-working teachers of this country. What I wasn't looking forward to is that during the discussion of preparing students for college and beyond ("all students graduate high school on time prepared for at least one year of post-secondary") middle school students are lumped together with high school students in a group called "Secondary 6-12."

I'd like to offer that a sixth grader and a twelfth grader have drastically different needs when it comes to graduation preparation and college readiness. A sixth grader is more concerned with remembering a locker combination than remembering to complete a college application. And although we are certainly focusing on the "pre" part of "preparing" our students for college, our focus is more on the organizational and study skills needed to master the rigorous coursework that will enable kids to be competitive when it comes to college acceptance in the future.

So for that reason I'd like to ask for the middle school to have its own category: "Middle School 6-8" so that we can focus on what needs to be done during those all important years, those three years when children change the most - from loving, sweet elementary children...to independent, thriving adolescents excited about high school. Add to my list of requests some breakout sessions at a reading conference that relate to adolescent readers.

It's a hot topic to the International Reading Association...but only lukewarm to the rest of the world.

Shades of Teaching

2010-03-28T20:54:00.006-04:00

I first heard the word "hybrid" in biology class in tenth grade. For some reason, there is a pea in my memory that has two different hues of green. But have I ever heard of a "hybrid pea"? Maybe hybrid corn? And more recently...hybrid car?

But as an educator I never thought about a hybrid position, until this year, when I was assigned to do two jobs at once. Back to that later...

The Metlife Survey of the American Teacher: Collaborating for Student Success has released the third part, "Teaching as a Career." In it, more than half of the teachers (56%) surveyed and half of the principals (49%) report that teachers in their schools combine part-time classroom teaching with other roles in their school or district and four in ten teachers say they are interested in such a position. Hybrid teaching roles are particularly appealing to new teachers (46%) and those who are less than satisfied with their current careers (42%).

I have been a strong advocate for looking at schools differently. We need to think about scheduling, grading, and school calendars in a way that doesn't replicate the past one hundred years of public school. In the same way, we need to look at teaching in ways that capitalize on the strengths of our educators without overburdening them with too many duties. Here are my thoughts on hybrid positions in education:

On the positive side, any job in education, from the school custodian to the superintendent, would be more meaningful if part of the day is spent with kids. Plain and simple. They're the reason we're all there, and they make it worth the long hours. Spending time in a classroom of students also is the best way to maintain credibility with other educators. How many times have we heard teachers say that Central Office staff members don't "get it" because they aren't in a classroom? In addition to credibility, being in a classroom also is important so that the educator's views are authentic and not based on what they remember about teaching or hear from colleagues.

At the same time, hybrid roles can be difficult. Take mine, for example. I am currently the Literacy Coach for my school and the Beginning Teacher Mentor for my district. Suffice it to say that my two 50% jobs are really two 100% (or more) jobs and that I feel that neither the teachers I should be coaching nor the teachers I should be mentoring are being served as they should. Luckily, my administrators are eager to look at ways to make my "jobs" more doable next year.

A common mistake I see when hybrid roles are developed occurs when teachers are pulled to do administrative/Central Office-type jobs but are paid teacher salaries. I have seen numerous "teacher-on-loan" style positions where the work is overwhelming, but the pay isn't higher. Educators must be compensated for the work they do as professionals, and school districts need to resist the urge to get "cheap help" from teachers they can pull from classrooms.

As for my job... it's true, my roles do utilize two of my passions - literacy and beginning teacher support; so in that way, it's perfect for me. That's what we should focus on when it comes to hybrid positions: begin by looking at educator strengths....then continue by planning a schedule that's feasible and capitalizes on what's best for kids. And the finishing touch is a salary that's commensurate with the work.

It should be like that pea - different shades...but still a pea.

Realizing Dreams

2010-03-01T14:41:00.007-05:00

My Daddy was a hard working man. He was also brilliant when it came to ideas that required common sense. (My mother always said he could hold an entire Chevrolet engine together with electrical tape.) He was no academian, though, and was actually a junior high school dropout. I remember every year I would take home the Student Data Sheet that my mother would complete on the first day of school. It always had a category for "highest education of parents." My mother would check "associate's degree" for herself and whatever random school year she would decide on for my Daddy. Sometimes she'd check 11th grade, sometimes another one, but she knew better than to check the box beside "high school graduate."

It wasn't until one of Daddy's many hospital stays on the cancer floor of Duke University Medical Center that we finally learned the truth. The nurse methodically asked each question on the patient intake form, and when she got to "highest level of education," my very sick father answered, "Seventh."

Had I not been so concerned over his health and totally committed to his care, I may have fallen out the door of that extremely small hospital room. Seventh grade. The very ages of the students I was teaching that year! I imagined my students, any one of them, being on their own at that moment. It was beyond imagination.

I've heard romanticized stories of my Daddy having to drop out of school to help support the family (not unheard of back in the 1940's), riding on the back of a milk truck, delivering milk to rural North Carolina. However, truth be told, I bet my Daddy left that junior high hooping and hollering, happy to be away from the requirements of school work.

I have more than one memory of Daddy handing me the newspaper and asking me a word or two. I tell my reading students about him, about how he worked hard to compensate for what he didn't have in book smarts, and how surprised I am that I grew up loving to read and write.

But I didn't grow up with an extensive vocabulary or skill in writing technique - I've tried to pick up a few things along the way to my master's degree. That's why today, when my book hit the shelf at Barnes and Noble, it was a special type of dream come true.

From my first essay (on the Vietnam War) that won an honorable mention when I was, myself, in seventh grade...to the personal writing I share with my students, including lamentations over my father's death...to this blog, I have always loved to write as a way to express my feelings...but I'm no J.K. Rowling. What I do is write what I know, stories about my students, my family, and me...topics that don't require too much imagination because I lived them.

So it'll definitely be a dream come true when I see my book on that shelf. It's a long way from that seventh grade essay...

Teacher Collaboration Past to Present...

2010-02-19T05:48:00.012-05:00

Teacher voice. We've been complaining about the lack of it for so long: I just spent a year traveling the country to speak on behalf of teachers, and there were many times when I felt that my message fell on deaf ears, that I was merely the "token teacher" in the room. However, I'm encouraged today at the release of the results of the Metlife Survey of the American Teacher. This year's title is Collaboration for Student Success, and like the North Carolina Teacher Working Conditions Survey in my state, the Metlife Survey provides feedback on what's going on in schools so that all stakeholders, and policymakers, can gain a better understanding of what we, as educators, experience every day.

Last night I had the opportunity to speak to a room full of future school principals on the topic of beginning teacher support. Not suprisingly, the subject of this year's survey was at the top of my list of how to support beginning teachers: foster an atmosphere of collaboration. The first part of the Collaboration for Student Success survey is entitled "Effective Teaching and Leadership," and one point we discussed as a group last night comes up again: "While we are meeting with other teachers, we aren't observing other teachers." Less than 1/3 of the teachers who responded to the survey indicated that the practice of observing other teachers occurs at their schools.

I told the group about an opportunity I had once to cover a classroom for a beginning teacher so that she could observe her mentor. All agreed that this is a good practice. But I ventured on into the conversation to say that not only should beginning teachers be observing others, the rest of us could learn a little something from the practice as well. Not only could we pick up management tips and ideas for what works with certain students (students we may teach as well), we could also be more informed about what others are teaching so that we can plan collaboratively.

Oh, there's that word...the one in the title of the survey..."increased collaboration."

Last night I shared the story of my first year teaching - 1979 - and how in that high school every classroom door was closed. Every teacher taught in isolation - there was no sharing of plans or resources, no discussions of student needs, no back and forth on what was working or wasn't. I spent my days talking only with children and found little avenues for getting any better at what I was doing.

As the years went by, those doors opened a little, but for the majority of my career there was still a mentality in the hallways and common areas of "I'm only going to address my own students, the ones I know, and leave the others to the teachers who teach them."

But now, according to the Survey of the American Teacher, 67% of the educators who completed the survey believe that increased collaboration has a direct effect on student success. And 80% strongly agree that teachers share responsibility for achievement of all students. We're in this together, folks, and I'm delighted to see that a majority of those questioned agree.

And although in many schools, there's still some "door closing" and collaborative planning is not a seamless part of the day, we have come so far in our understanding of purposeful instruction. My school has 1 1/2 hours of common grade-level planning daily and fully equipped team rooms for meetings (fully equipped = tables, chairs, and internet access...there are also bathrooms and a functional stove, but we don't seem to fit "cooking" in to the planning meetings).

At my school, collaboration is such a part of the culture that I see discussions about instruction everywhere - the halls, the cafeteria, the car rider line - and just last summer, while my entire faculty attended a graveside funeral, the math teacher I was talking to after the service excused herself on the lawn of the cemetery: "I have to plan a math lesson," she said as she walked across the grass to meet with her grade-level teaching partner.

I looked at my principal and said, "We're having PLC meetings in a cemetery...in the summer...when school's out."

I know this type of collaboration is the exception and not the rule, but I can tell you that it works, it's the best for students, and it fosters an atmosphere of family in a school.

The Metlife Survey of the American Teacher can tell you that, too.

Super Teachers!

2010-02-07T19:54:00.006-05:00

The Super Bowl is on - a huge event that's being broadcast all over the world. Last weekend I attended the Pro Bowl, another exciting football game where professional athletes were celebrated and honored.

I watched them on the practice field and during the game, paparazzi flashing, and tried to picture them all as seventh graders, the ages of my students. I thought about them before they became football heroes, before they earned million dollar salaries and bought million dollar houses. I thought of them as middle school football players, dragging their practice clothes around school in bags, like my students do, working hard to balance practices and school assignments (and sometimes not making that work at all.)

And then I thought of their teachers. They all had them. Julius Peppers, for example, a defensive end for the Carolina Panthers, made 18 million dollars last year. But once he was sitting in classrooms in smalltown Bailey, N.C. He probably had an elementary school art teacher, a middle school algebra teacher, and maybe a high school chemistry teacher. Kurt Warner, retired quarterback for the Arizona Cardinals, once looked shy at a school dance in Iowa, a middle school kid from an abusive family who beat the odds and made it big. He surely had a teacher, or several, who encouraged him to pursue his dreams, who pushed him to greatness.

It was at the Pro Bowl last week that I looked at all of those heroes on the field and thought of my own students. Who are the future professional athletes, scientists, soldiers, and even teachers sitting in my classroom every day? What words can I say that will make a difference in the direction their lives take?

It's a tremendous responsibility we have, as teachers, to say and do what needs to be done to ensure that our students go on to greatness.

My hope is that I say it tomorrow...and do it the next day...and say it again the next...what an amazing honor...

Is Technology the Most Efficient Way?

2010-01-24T15:52:00.005-05:00

My husband just bought a new truck. He's really proud of all the bells and whistles. There are read-outs to tell him how much gas he has left, what the oil is up to, and which way he's going. I told him that while all the technology in automobiles today is impressive, gone are the days your Uncle Floyd can walk over with a screwdriver and fix your car in your own driveway. Technology like this requires a more sophisticated means of repair. My mother used to say that Daddy could hold an entire car engine in place with electrical tape. That wouldn't work now.

Last week I visited a school that had more technology than I've ever seen. Recipients of a grant, the teachers all had document cameras (that looked like reading lamps) in their classrooms. There were interactive white boards and hand-held touch devices meant to make learning fun. I observed as students plugged headsets into the devices and watched and listened to podcasts about World War II.

I wondered who loaded all of those little movies onto the devices. And I thought that it would have been just as easy, and a great deal faster, for the class to watch the movie on the whiteboard...just pull it up on the computer and project it. There would be no need to take the time required to load the movies, pass out headsets, and wait for individual students to finish the same movie. A teacher could even pause the clip at different intervals and elicit classroom discussion.

I don't know - call me a fuddy-duddy, but as impressive as technology is...is it always the best means of instruction? I saw 30 kids sit like zombies and watch their own personal movies. Sure, there was no misbehaving and no talking. But the room was dark and the students (and this observer) seemed sleepy.

And what about the three hours it took me to develop a compelling PowerPoint lesson on writing a couple of years ago? I kept thinking that I could've written the same information on the board in about five minutes.

So I have to ask, is the use of technology, with all its bells and whistles, always the best way ?

A Shiny New Day

2010-01-04T19:46:00.003-05:00

I so love the first day back in school after a break. I can barely sleep the night before as I lay and wonder which students will show up at school: the sleepy ones who aren't accustomed to getting up so early or the rested ones who are too excited to focus on schoolwork.

Today I drove to school and thought of each group. I remembered the years I had to walk desk to desk and grab up kids by the nape of the neck...just to keep them from snoring. I also thought of a return after spring break a couple of years ago. Those students were so distracted I had to fight for attention and eventually gave up.

So today I watched the first wave of students come down the hallway - the sixth graders. Immediately I knew which group had arrived - the sleepy type! They came down the hall in slow motion, like a prepubescent gelatin gradually released from its mold, these kids were sleepwalking out of the gym, down the hallway, and into their homerooms.

Glazed eyes walked by me; I couldn't even grab a hug or get a hello. It was too cute! A sixth grade teacher called for some of us to come look at her class - we peeked in to see twenty-nine little zombies staring straight ahead.

As the day wore on, of course, one by one our students woke up. As I worked with children throughout the day, walking up and down the aisles of the classroom, I noticed my own distraction: my eyes were drawn to the floor. And then I realized - almost every student had on new shoes, gifts from Santa visits during break. New sneakers were everywhere and every color of furry boot you can imagine.

I started thinking about sleepy children in shiny new shoes and got excited about a new year and new possibilities. Happy New Year to teachers and students sleepy and awake. Welcome to a shiny new year!

Teaching Tolerance

2009-12-14T12:43:00.005-05:00

This sign, announcing that the weight tolerance for heavy trucks ends here, sits just down the road from my school. I have the urge to mark through it so that it reads "Tolerance Begins Here."

It's happening again. Kristin comes to me to ask if she can change groups. She can't work with Jacob. I ask her what the problem is even though I know: "Jacob stinks," she says.

And although I silently wish that Kristin is speaking metaphorically, I know it's true - Jacob literally smells bad. Despite referrals to the guidance office and the social worker, Jacob carries the distinct odor of poverty - old, hand-me-down clothes; mold and mildew from a house that is rotting where it stands; and second-hand smoke in his hair, which is in constant need of a cut and a bottle of shampoo.

I look to the other side of the room to see Hannah nodding toward Jenny. I can read her lips as she whispers to Caden across the aisle: "Look at her shoes," she says. I walk over and look at Jenny's shoes myself. They aren't a name brand, and Jenny, during what must surely be boredom from always sitting alone, has colored in her once-white shoes with red ink.

Unfortunately, these examples of student behaviors are all too commonplace in our schools. How can I, as a teacher, help my students understand how to be more accepting of others, especially of those who are different socially or academically?

First, we must model acceptance ourselves. When students see teachers, the role models they spend most of their days with, treating each student with the same unconditional understanding and attention, they recognize the importance of treating others equally, the importance of valuing others regardless of where they're from or what they wear.

Also, it is imperative that we have open conversations with our students about how to treat other people. I've noticed that students always pull for the underdog in movies and become angered at how others are treated across the world but will behave just as unfairly to classmates sitting four feet away. I don't hesitate to point this fact out to them, and we have emotional discussions about ways to change our own behaviors.

And last, I use every opportunity I have to point out the amazing talents of the "underdogs" in my classroom. Jacob's artwork, for example, has decorated many book projects and classroom displays. And Jenny's knowledge of books, in particular the Twilight series, is an example for all of my middle school readers.

I don't force students to work in ways that make them uncomfortable. However, I do require that they treat every other student with respect. I make it clear that I will tolerate nothing less. Maybe Jacob can draw me a sign for my classroom - Tolerance Begins Here.

Setting the Record Straight

2009-11-16T10:27:00.008-05:00

I love writing, getting my ideas out there...sharing them with somebody, anybody who may find what I have to say interesting. However, I get all prickly when something I have said is taken out of context, or is misinterpreted for the world to see.

It all started innocently enough. A few years ago, I had just begun investigating social networking when I ran across a student's MySpace page. On it, one of my students had written this:

"wut it do i ain't talked 2 u n a minute ever since da last day of skool fo christmas break wut been ^ 2 me nuttin jus sittin @ home ain't gone nuttin 2 do........well i wuz jus stoppin by 2 sho ur page sum luvin get baq @ me when u can"

I was horrified! I was reading this before (B4) I began participating in social networking myself, before I figured out how to text on a teeny keyboard on my phone, before I became cool. So I developed a presentation for my students that eventually found its way around the entire school. I was able to share my ideas on writing with every language arts student in my building that year.

What I did was talk about the history of our language. I went way back to our Greek and Roman roots (pun intended) in language, traveled through old English, middle English, Elizabethan English, and onward to modern times, providing examples along the way. I ended with the MySpace quote, and the students and I had a grand time discussing what effects, if any, this type of abbreviated writing would have on formal writing. I was pretty sure we were doomed. They just laughed at my concern as if they had not a care.

Shortly after, I wrote an article I called "Grammar Interrupted" for Teacher Magazine online. It received lots of "hits" and folks emailed me for awhile, asking questions about my lesson. From there, I was interviewed by Sara Bernard from Edutopia. Her article, "The Zero Thumb Game: How to Tame Texting," came out on May 28, 2008. Ms. Bernard interviewed several teachers and did a great job of summarizing all of our comments. When she mentions my use of the MySpace page for instruction, she says,

"Some English teachers are tapping into their students' own instant messaging style to get their points across. Some, including Cindi Rigsbee, are guiding exercises in text translation: pulling up a MySpace page...and asking students to translate the writing into standard English. Or they ask students to translate passages from classic literature to texting speak to demonstrate their comprehension..."

The key word here is "some." Sara Bernard is not only talking about me. She interviewed several people! She has correctly identified the activity that I did, "pulling up a MySpace page" and thrown in another activity - translating passages from classic literature - which can be attributed to the teachers she refers to as "they." So far so good.

Here's what happened a few weeks ago, a long two years later: I started getting calls and emails from local media as well as from news anchors in New York City. After some investigation I found out that an article had come out in a major newspaper in my state, The Charlotte Observer, naming me in a report about texting. On October 29th, the following was printed in US News and World Report:

"Teachers such as Cindi Rigsbee have asked students to translate passages from classic literature to text-speak..."

Uh-oh...no I didn't!

So when the reporters called me and found out that I didn't actually have students translate from classic literature to text-speak (instead, it was the other way around for me), they weren't interested in interviewing me. That was okay...I had "not a care." Until today...

While searching amazon.com to see if my upcoming book was listed, I found myself in another book, a book by an author I've never heard of - Why can't U teach me 2 read? by Beth Fertig.

"Cindi Rigsbee, a middle school teacher...asked her students to translate lingo-based websites into standard English and to translate classic literature into text-speak."

Okay, now my feelings are hurt. Not only do I not have students translate from classic literature into text-speak, I know that I never would! Why in the world would I ask students to write incorrectly on purpose? Goodness knows they're practicing enough of that! Meanwhile, who is Beth Fertig, and couldn't she have contacted me before mentioning me (and my alleged activity) in her book?

So there are several problems here. One is that what I actually do has been interpreted across four articles until the original meaning has changed. Another is that our "global" access to information means that anyone can get their hands on what is actually a teacher's intellectual property and use it as they wish, even if it's incorrect.

So here I am setting the record straight. If any of you ever see anything about me in print and want to use it in your book, please just ask me. I may have been misquoted, misinterpreted, or misunderstood.

Jus send an email 2 me or sho my pag sum luv.

Think Before You Speak

2009-11-01T07:27:00.006-05:00

Teachers have powerful voices. As we struggle to be heard by policy-makers, the community, and others who can impact our profession on a large scale, we are definitely being heard...maybe not by those groups as often as we'd like, but by another group that is even more important - our children.

Recently I watched a class of third graders read together. It was a Halloween story, spooky and scary, and they loved it! They read together, a chorus of ghouls, and on the scary parts, they got louder and louder! There was an energy in the room as they got more and more excited. They started squirming in their seats, wiggling and shouting...it looked as if the room would erupt at any second.

And then the teacher said, "Calm down. If you get out of control, we won't be able to do fun things like this any more. Instead, you'll have to read to yourself."

(Insert here the sound of a needle scratching across a record.)

What?!

Okay, you know what she literally said. But what those kids heard was that if they didn't behave they would have to read for punishment. Punishment? Reading should be a reward as in... "If you walk nicely to the cafeteria for lunch, I'll let you read silently for the rest of the day...the week...the year...!"

I've heard it too many times to count - "Jacob, you can't work nicely in the group. Get a book and sit over there and read."

And what about writing for punishment? Teachers have been assigning the ever-dreaded "sentences" for years.

I will not talk in class.

And we've all seen these writing prompts: Write one full page explaining why you didn't do your homework.

No wonder our students hate to write stories and poetry and reflections. We may as well assign:

I will never like to write.

Teachers, let's make a commitment to think before we send the message that literacy's not important.

And while we're at it, let's stop making our athletes run laps when they lose a game or run a drill incorrectly at practice. Exercise - another activity we want our children to choose - but they won't if they "hear" it as punishment.

Mama's Birthday, Part II

2009-10-25T06:17:00.005-04:00

This is my mother on the day of her bridal shower in 1956.

My Mama was my first teacher, as most mothers are. But mothers in the fifties were stay-at-home, hands-on, just-wait-til-your-Daddy-gets-home kind of mothers. It was great. My Mama taught me how to tie my shoes and how to shop for bargains, how to bake a cake and how to steam cabbage, how to soothe a screaming newborn and how to get that newborn into a great university. My Mama - my first teacher.

Today is Mama's birthday. She's 82 years young. It's a wonderful day, but there have been times in the past four months when I thought this day may not come. My mother has had a rough go of it for awhile - she's fallen about fifteen times, broken her hip, elbow, and back, had one hospital stay and two trips to the rest home.

But today, her birthday, she's doing better. She's strong, her head is clear, and she's walking better than I can remember in awhile. So in honor of my mother, Clara Agnes Moore Cole, I'm digging up an old post entitled Mama's Birthday. This little piece got me a fourth runner up prize in the Carolina Women's Writing Contest - a gift certificate to an organic market. (My Mama grew organic food on her childhood farm before she knew it was cool.)

Read on, those of you who love your mothers. They continue to teach us every day.

Mama enjoys her birthday cake and coffee.

Teaching Joy

2009-10-18T15:13:00.005-04:00

I've been spending much of my time lately in a skilled nursing center - a nice euphemism for "rest home" or "old folks home" - what they were called when I was a child, where my mother would take me while selling AVON. Now my mother is a resident. Up until recently I haven't focused much of my attention on the elderly of our community. That's because I've been busy with the other end of the spectrum - prepubescent cherubs - those middle school students I teach.

But since I've spent numerous hours with octogenarians (and older) in the past few months, I've become aware of their importance in our culture, of their stories and experience. I've been particularly drawn to the line of wheelchairs that greet me just as I punch in the security code and enter the facility every day. My mother is never in that line; instead she keeps to herself in her room, except for meals, because she finally, here at the end of her life, has time to read novel after novel uninterrupted. (Well, she is my mother.)

And one glance at the wheelchairs lined up by the door can give me valuable information as I enter: I can tell time by whether or not the inhabitants are sleeping, for example. Each resident requires a mid-morning and mid-afternoon nap. If the wheelchair line is missing altogether, I've arrived at mealtime and know to head to the dining hall.

The lady who sits on the end of the line, Mrs. Bryant, has always caught my eye. She is the most impeccably dressed - always sporting a beautiful scarf or pin to accent her sweater. Mrs. Bryant has thick glasses - I've often wondered if she even sees me as I walk by - but regardless, I always say hello.

Yesterday I finally had an opportunity to talk to her for awhile. My mother was asleep, novel still in her hand, when I arrived. Not wanting to wake her, I sauntered out into the hallway and headed to the "line." Mrs. Bryant was the only resident awake. After I said hello, the nurse called to me from her desk: "Aren't you a teacher? Mrs. Bryant was a teacher, too!"

Mrs. Bryant lit up like the first day of school and started telling me about her early career in Pennsylvania...in 1927! Now, I know I'm not good at math. But I do know this: my mother was born in 1927, and she's 82 years old! So my next question couldn't wait..."how old are you?"

She laughed quietly, and I wondered if my question were inappropriate. But she was proud to answer. "102," she said.

"102 years old?!" I know I seemed shocked, but Mrs. Bryant must be accustomed to that reaction because she continued on..."There are people who can't believe that I loved it so much," she said. "But it was a joy in my life. I had no children of my own. My students were my children."

I asked her what she taught. "Everything," she said. And she continued, "I taught..." She paused. I waited, but she stared ahead for many painful seconds.

"My mind," she said finally. "Sometimes it just goes away." I laughed and told her that mine does that, too. At that point it was apparent that she was tired and was unable to retrieve the words she needed for the conversation. So I told her we'd talk again soon and left for my visit with my mother.

Later that week, there were days in my school when I was weary. But I would think of Mrs. Bryant and push on.

This job, you see...this opportunity to make a difference in the lives of children...it is the joy of my life, too. Thank you, Mrs. Bryant, for paving the way for those of us who are following in your footsteps. It is an honor to know you.

Teacher Bashing and An Overheard Goat

2009-10-06T20:04:00.004-04:00

It’s happening again. There’s another Teacher Basher in the crowd. In an airport this time…probably not the best place to confront a total stranger and begin an argument. I mean, they won’t even let me take my Clinique Dramatically Different Moisturizing Lotion through security; do you think they’ll let me stand up at the gate to a plane and yell my position?

I first picked up on his (exceedingly loud) telephone conversation when he said that “history is nothing but memorizing.” I was ready then to present my counterpoint, that in schools today we don’t teach memorization. We teach thinking. I’m not even a history teacher, but I can just hear my colleagues across the country asking their students, “What if we had lost the Revolutionary War? How would we be different?” And then I hear my students answering, “We would all talk like Harry Potter and drink tea in the afternoons. Cool!”

But just as I was forming my remarks in my mind, the overly loud phone conversationalist said this: “It’s just because the teacher is bad. Face it. It’s a public school. Teachers are bad in public schools. If you’re lucky you’ll come across a couple of good ones. I had a few good ones in school. But most are bad.”

I choked on my airport “you have to check in way too early” breakfast muffin and listened. He continued so long that I considered handing him a thesaurus so that he could look up some alternatives for the word “bad.” Michael Jackson fan, I guess. Or a goat (baaa…aaa…ddd…)

Not a teacher fan.

Interestingly, I’m in this airport because I’m returning home from a teacher conference, a State Teacher of the Year conference, in fact, where I have spent the week exchanging ideas, laughter, and tears with the best and brightest, as well as some of the most inspiring and motivated, teachers across the country.

So here I sit faced with a dilemma. I have things to say about teachers. I have strong opinions about the phrase “bad teachers.” But to stand up and attempt a conversation with this man, this total stranger, when I am alone in this airport, would most likely be futile and would give him more fuel to add to his fire, to add to his negative opinion of teachers.

So I make a vow to myself to work harder at changing the public’s perception of teachers. And although I can make presentations to educator groups, stand in front of thousands, shout from the mountaintops (or at least across the blog-o-sphere), I think the place I can make the most difference is in my very own classroom. I need to make sure that none of my students’ parents ever refer to me in a conversation that echoes across an airport.

That would be baaa...aaa…ddd.

My Constant State of Disequilibrium

2009-09-19T18:55:00.007-04:00

I attended a workshop on literacy the other day. The presenter was giving us new strategies to use in the classroom, techniques we had never tried. She warned us: we may feel a little "disequilibrium" when first trying out these new ideas.

I sighed. Not only have I already been living in the state of disequilibrium, I live in the capital of it. I'm the mayor of its largest city. My full name is Dis Equil Ibrium.

First, my personal life has been out of balance recently due to health issues in my family. But that aside, my professional life has been out of whack, too. I returned to school after my year as "Teacher Ambassador" for the state of North Carolina to two jobs, not one. And what was proposed as half time Literacy Coach and half time District Mentor has actually turned into two full time jobs. I told my boss I'm not woman enough to do two jobs as effectively as they should be done. So I constantly struggle with time management issues, conflicting meetings, and craziness in my professional life as well.

But although those duties are tipping the balance of my life from one side to the other at a moment's notice, there is one even bigger reason my life is dis-equal: this English major, published author, poetry loving, reading teacher...is teaching math.

I just heard the collective gasp from here.

It's not that I don't like numbers. I just like words better. I did like playing with the abacus when I was in first grade, but I don't remember relating that to math. Instead it was a game - pushing pretty little beads around. Years later, I would struggle in geometry, algebra, and trigonometry. I didn't even attempt calculus.

I've spent my adult life figuring out ways to balance a bank statement, estimate totals when grocery shopping, and place furniture in angled corners. And though I can hold my own with those tasks, I wouldn't say I have a relationship with the subject matter.

Which brings us to the present. A few months ago my principal called me in to tell me that he had some ideas about my role as Literacy Coach at my school. He said, "The language arts teachers should know how to integrate reading and writing into their instruction. I need you to work in the math classes." I didn't tell him about the 3 I made on an Algebra II test in 11th grade. A 3. Out of 100.

But since then I have embraced the challenge and have learned a great deal about factoring and least common multiples and patterns and mean, median, and mode while trying to find an opening to talk about vocabulary connections and ways to make math relative out in the world. And the interesting thing is that I see little middle school versions of me sitting in some of those desks struggling with math.

Here's an example - a word problem the teacher assigned went something like this: a girl has agreed to babysit every third day. But she has to go to dance class every seventh day. How many days in a month will she have a conflict? Now...solving this problem, according to the teacher's example, involved finding common multiples. I can't even explain it in words.

But I looked at one student, Jacob, and found a kindred spirit. He grabbed his ruler, drew a huge calendar, numbered the days and began counting. Exactly what I would have done - skipping the math computation altogether. A child after my own heart.

Albert Einstein said, "Pure mathematics is, in its way, the poetry of logical ideas." Well, everyone knows I love poetry. So maybe this math thing will work out okay. It has to get easier. I'd like to move out of Disequilibrium.

The Pond of Violence

2009-08-21T21:38:00.014-04:00

We all believe school shootings happen somewhere else. But I believe that kids who grow up and become capable of being school shooters are everywhere, maybe even in our own classes - misfits some call them, those who are bullied or feel out of place. Those who, like Alvaro Rafael Castillo, grow up and want the notoriety of shooting up a school...those who don't realize the impact, like those proverbial ripples in a pond, that their actions have on a community.

It was the fourth day of school on August 30, 2006. We were still learning our students' names and working to get procedures in place on that day. I walked out of the library and immediately noticed that students were running, full speed, down a nearby hallway. One of them yelled, "Run!" Before I had time to react, perhaps reprimand them for their behavior, the intercom alarm sounded and I heard, "This is a lockdown." At first I thought it was a drill. I turned and walked back into the library for the "practice lockdown." But soon the commotion...the administrators' walkie talkies popping back and forth in the halls, the look of controlled panic as they checked classroom doors...told me that this was not a drill.

I got down behind a bookshelf, along with the other teachers in the room, and called my husband on my cell phone. Since he is a former police officer and now works in law enforcement training, I knew he could get information to me, while I waited, shaking and wondering why we were barricaded between those bookshelves. Soon he called back and said two words I've never forgotten: "Shots fired." He told me that the dispatcher thought someone was firing a rifle into the air in the adjacent high school's parking lot, but that there was a great deal of confusion and they were still investigating.

Meanwhile, the 911 calls were flooding in while we continued to wait. Luckily, there were heroes that day. My school's current resource officer and a retired highway patrolman were able to secure the school shooter as his gun malfunctioned. Soon the administrators came in and told us that it was over. But I was hesitant to believe them. I had seen the video footage of Columbine. We all had.

News came in bits and pieces. A former student, 19 years old, had driven a van full of weapons and explosives into the student parking lot, fired a rifle up into the air, and then began firing into the school cafeteria. One student was shot; another was injured by flying glass. No Columbine here, but devastating just the same.

As he was being led away, Alvaro Castillo told our school resource officer, "I sacrificed him." The deputy asked, "Who?" He answered proudly, "My father."

Deputies found Castillo's father at his home, shot five times in the head and once in the shoulder. Days later police would receive a videotape: Castillo's ramblings that he taped and mailed between murdering his father and traveling to the school to attempt to carry out his plan.

That afternoon, as the news traveled like wildfire across the community, parents began rushing to the schools. I can only imagine their alarm when they found the road to the middle and high schools cordoned off with crime scene tape. We were instructed to lead our students to school buses in the back of the school and ride up the road to nearby tennis courts where we were to reunite students with their parents. I'll never forget the terrified children on that bus - "But what if I go to the tennis courts but my mama goes to the school?" I had to reassure children, who had been sixth graders for only four days, that their parents weren't allowed to drive up to the school...that they would be at those courts for sure.

I almost broke down looking out of the school bus windows and seeing the looks of sheer terror on the parents' faces as we approached the tennis courts. Yes, the danger was over. But none of us felt safe...teachers, students, parents...we were all changed by the events of that day. I remember looking over my shoulder into the woods and thinking What if there were more of them? What if he didn't act alone? What if someone starts shooting into this crowd of kids? The "what-ifs" kept me shaking as I continued to match each child to a parent.

Later, as I left the school at dusk, and drove down the road, a road that on the other end was closed to incoming traffic, I saw hundreds of parents waiting in a church parking lot for their children to come out of the high school. I saw adults trying to sneak across the crime scene tape and get to their children. I saw tears, I saw anger and frustration, and I saw police officers trying to keep everything under control. Then I cried all the way home.

The next morning our students wanted to talk. They knew the shooter...or they knew the victim...the shooter's sister went to Tyler's church...it went on and on. Too close. Just too close to home. We wrote Get Well cards for the victim. It helped our students feel as if they were doing something.

On the one year anniversary of the school shooting, a MySpace hoax declared that someone was planning another school shooting "to finish what was started a year ago." My student Brittany said, "I brought snacks and color books and puzzles in my backpack...just in case we go on lockdown...we'll have something to do." I walked around the classroom looking at student work and found Tiffany doodling on her paper: "I don't want to die. I don't want to die..." Students walked the halls, grabbing each other and repeating, "If I die, I love you, if I die I love you..." over and over. I watched four girls, sitting in four different sections of the cafeteria, eat lunch with tears streaming down their faces. Later, Jonathan attempted to barricade the classroom door using a yard stick.

Today I sat in a restaurant at lunch on our teacher workday with many of the teachers who were side-by-side during the lockdown that day. We looked across the street to the courthouse where Alvaro Rafael Castillo's verdict would be decided later in the afternoon, and we looked across the restaurant at Castillo's mother and sister, trying to keep their heads up during what must be a living hell for them. They've lost their husband and father and are about to lose their son and brother to jail for a lifetime. Ripples.

Other ripples include those sixth graders who are now entering high school themselves this month. They remember that fateful day when they lost their innocence, their sense of safety, and their trust of the world.

Alvaro Castillo will spend his life in jail. The rest of us are still out here, hoping to never experience this kind of fear again while at the same time feeling a gradual sense of security as time goes on.

And next week when school starts, three years after that scary day, I wonder if Brittany will pack some snacks in her backpack for high school. I bet she will.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year...

2009-08-09T21:03:00.003-04:00

No, not Christmas...Back to School! I borrowed that song lyric from a Back to School commercial. The father is spinning around on a shopping cart, and the kids look like they're walking the Green Mile. But, seriously, why the doldrums?

This IS the most wonderful time of the year!

I've spent the past few weeks hearing others lamenting: "Where did the summer go?" And, granted - teachers' time of reflection and planning for a new year is running out. But just think...soon it will be the proverbial First Day of School, and I can't wait!

Who's gonna miss the sweltering heat, bored and restless children, the vacations that end up being so much work...parents have to go back to work to get some rest?

Here's what I love - shiny, sparkling children in starch white sneakers carrying bookbags full of school supplies.

I also love seeing my dearest friends in the world, those teachers who stand side-by-side at the copier with me, the ones who really get me and know why there are nights I toss and turn because of a child.

I love my principal's mantras - "Once a Grizzly; Always a Grizzly" and "I love each and every one of you" (on the announcements every morning.)

I love the Pledge of Allegiance and the students who walk in a line and the hugs and waves.

And I love that my school sits on land that was full of strawberry and blueberry fields years ago...so we can get by with acting fruity around our halls.

I love that my school is a family...from the custodians to the clerical staff to the teachers to the administrators. We celebrate together and mourn together. We present a united front to our students who know that we are in it together, for them.

I love the first day of school when shaky sixth graders open the car door and try to be brave. I yell at them and dance around, "Welcome to the first day of school! Kiss your mama and thank her for all those school supplies! Yes, you! Go ahead! Love you, Mama! Have a great day! Now get in there and feed your hungry mind with knowledge!" And I love that the look of fear eventually turns to shock, then disbelief, then comfort...all because a crazy teacher has gone nuts in the car rider line.

Yea, I can't wait for the first day of school...and the first school lunch...and the first football game...and the first school dance.

I'm gonna soak it up and live in every moment...because...soon...it will be summer.

Marketing Ourselves as Teachers

2009-07-13T20:31:00.005-04:00

I attended a conference recently where policymakers and representatives from higher education convened to discuss education policy. A group of teachers were there, too, and I was honored to be among them, hopefully there to advocate for my profession and represent what's going on at the school level in our country while at the same time learning some innovations that I could share with educators in my state.

We weren't there long before we started feeling uncomfortable and fidgeting in our seats. Many speakers who stood before us repeatedly uttered phrases like "bad teachers" and "fix teaching." Soon we felt defensive...and even angry...and wondered what all the "teacher bashing," as one of my colleagues put it, was about.

It didn't take me long to realize that there are very bright folks who don't really know what's going on in our schools. For example, an education professor from an extremely prestigious university in our country compared our schools to those in Australia. He spoke of online lesson plans and assessments that are available there as if they were recent inventions, and I wondered why he didn't know that teachers have been using those for over ten years in my own state. In addition, he said (twice) that we're "failing" as we attempt to teach middle school literacy. As a middle school reading teacher, of course I bristled at hearing those statements.

A congressman who sat in a breakout session with me mentioned the inequities of technology. He said, "I saw a classroom that had only five laptop computers...not very effective, but more effective than a teacher in the room."

Just after that a congresswoman from another state added, "The old teachers don't know about technology and are not comfortable with it." Immediately my mind raced to the list of veteran (not old) teachers who use instructional technology in their classrooms daily, the ones who have class blogs and wikis and who Skype with classrooms across the world.

One presenter said, "There are schools where the principal doesn't do all the leading; the teachers actually work together, and that's the nature of the work." I thought "DUH!" Does the world outside of our school buildings not know that we've been collaborating like that for years?

So after I calmed myself from the range of emotions I felt at this conference I had to ask myself why these seemingly important people were so misinformed. I also wondered why all of the answers seemed to be relative to teachers instead of directed toward other stakeholders in education. Here's what I came up with:

First, all of the research points to the teacher as being the most important factor in whether a child learns or not. It's not the parent, or the school administration, or the football coach...it's the teacher. So because so much is focused on there being a quality teacher in every classroom, that's where the finger gets pointed when things go wrong.

And while I do agree that there should be a highly qualified teacher (as No Child Left Behind mandates) in every classroom, I can tell you that I can't deliver quality instruction without the support of the parents, the instructional leadership of my school administration, and the collaboration I have with other important individuals in my students' lives - like the football coach and the band director.

Another reason those who aren't in the school buildings point to "bad teachers" is because we, as a profession, don't market ourselves well. Here's an example: over and over at this conference I heard references to Teach for America. Yes, there are amazing TFA teachers all over the country; I even work with one. TFA takes highly motivated college graduates, provides them with intense, condensed (five weeks) training, and places them in our neediest schools. And although the retention rates are nothing to brag about (TFA reports that retention is difficult to determine, but many articles report that TFA teachers leave after 2-3 years), the marketing that includes billboards, television commercials, and education journal advertising makes TFA look glamorous as well as successful.

So what are classroom teachers doing to market themselves? Well, just today I read this "status update" on a Facebook page - "Another long day at the pool. Being a teacher in the summer is hard work." Last week I read this one - "Summer - the reason I teach."

Although most teachers spend their entire summers "off" at trainings and planning with other teachers (I've seen half the staff at my school this week), those bragging about their leisurely summers are not getting any points with the policymakers who work all year. No wonder they don't want to raise teacher salaries.

In addition, the teacher "venting" that occurs in our communities most likely indicates to others that we are not committed to doing whatever it takes to teach our children. It probably sounds like we're only committed to whining about how difficult our jobs are.

So teachers, it is up to us to change the thinking of legislators, higher ed representatives, and policymakers. It is up to us to market ourselves as professionals who can make a difference in the lives of children, instead of "bad teachers" who are uncomfortable with technology.

The last session I attended at the conference included presenters who were working on a report outlining the qualities of a teacher leader. At the beginning of the presentation, the participants were given a handout listing the members of the committee working on the report. I immediately scanned the list to see how many teachers had been included. I wasn't surprised to see that there were none.

I guess they figured we were all at the pool...

Remembering Michael

2009-06-28T20:24:00.010-04:00

If you haven't heard the name "Michael Jackson" 9 zillion times this week, you haven't been in our stratosphere. All of the cliches are true - the world has lost a pop icon who made an immeasurable impact on the worlds of music and dance. I so wish that school was in session right now, so that I could talk to my students about the life and music of Michael Jackson and about the troubled lives (and tragic deaths) of some of the celebrities that my middle schoolers adore (think Kurt Cobain, Tupac Shakur, Biggie Smalls, Heath Ledger...the list goes on and on....)

There will be time for those discussions in the fall. But first...Michael...

Since I was born one year before the King of Pop, my life and his work have intersected on many occasions. My father's voice, which has been silent for almost five years now, rings in my ears whenever I hear "I'll Be There."

"Daddy," I said during a Sunday drive in 1970, "Don't you like this song?"

"Sounds nice," he answered. "But who's the little girl singing it?"

At thirteen, I thought that was hysterical... that my Daddy couldn't tell that the Jackson Five was a "boy band." I had Tiger Beat pictures of Michael (right beside Donny Osmond) wallpapering my bedroom. And my first slow dances with boys were awkwardly carried out to "just call my name...and I'll be there..."

I choreographed a middle school dance routine to "The Love You Save" and performed it for the neighbors (I charged a nickel) at our talent shows in the 'hood. Years later, Off the Wall would be the soundtrack for my first year teaching - "I Want to Rock with You" could be heard reverberating up and down the halls of that high school.

And it was pure destiny that I owned a dance studio and worked as a dance instructor in the eighties, the Thriller years. Although my classes always warmed up to "Don't Stop 'til You Get Enough" from Off the Wall, so many recital dances came from that Thriller album...including a stage full of ghouls and monsters. I remember studying the videos, particularly the one for "Beat It" as I worked on choreography. I couldn't discern the dance moves by watching Michael Jackson; instead, I watched the backup dancers in an effort to learn the steps so that I could teach them to my students.

In the next decade I would have the opportunity to sit in the audience and watch my nine-year-old daughter perform "I Want You Back" with fourth graders from all over the school district. Eight years later, she and her friends would become The Jackson Five at a Halloween Talent Show. They got some strange looks from other drivers as they drove across town to the talent show wearing their afros.

In this, the next decade, I have become "Nana" and memories of three-year-old Taylor bouncing in her car seat shouting, "Play 'Rockin' Robin', Nana!" are fresh. My iPod repeatedly blasts "Rockin' Robin" and "ABC" for a preschool soloist as we drive down the same "Sunday drive" roads from forty years ago. Little Taylor works hard to snap her fingers while the music of an icon from my childhood makes an impact on hers.

And now...the end. The intersections of my life and Michael Jackson's have come to an abrupt halt...but not before one new memory: I have spent the past month making several trips a day to the retirement home where my mother is recuperating from a fall which resulted in a broken hip and elbow. After the permanent residents are dressed every day, they're lined up in front of a huge television in the lobby. I have to walk right in front of them to get to the elevator from my mother's room. In the past few days many have asked me, "Did you hear about Michael Jackson?" as I pass by. One resident told me, just as the local news reporter was delivering the tragic news, "I dreamed last week that Michael Jackson died." I begged her not to ever dream about me.

A wonderful memory of the music of Michael Jackson I'll always remember - as I was leaving the retirement home tonight, I walked in front of a row of senior citizens, lined up like weary wheelchair soldiers. One after another, they appeared to be in varied stages of consciousness, some sleeping, some slumped over the sides of the chair, some alert. But all...ALL of them were tapping a foot or gently smacking a leg to the music of the video on that television screen - a catchy little tune named "Smooth Criminal."

That's what Michael Jackson was...before the odd behavior, before the Neverland Ranch and the monkey and the hyperbaric chamber....when he was just little Michael singing "ABC," that's what he was....smooth. And, in some ways, he was a teacher. Who hasn't tried to do the moonwalk? Who hasn't held a hairbrush as a would-be microphone and belted out, "Billie Jean is not my lover..."?

Rest in peace, little Michael. I've enjoyed sharing the timeline of my life with you.

Summertime Blues

2009-06-07T17:18:00.009-04:00

Last year at this time I had no idea what my summer would be like, having been freshly selected as North Carolina's Teacher of the Year. I knew that I would be working all summer (NC TOYs immediately become 12 month employees - for the rest of their natural lives...) but I wasn't sure what I would be doing. As it turns out last summer wasn't much different from the remainder of my Teacher-of-the-Year-year with lots of speaking engagements, board meetings, presentations, workshops, etc.

This year I have a better idea of my summer plans, and I have some really cool things going on. But I have to tell you, cool things aside, I feel a twinge of envy reading classroom teachers' (and students') Facebook countdowns to the end of school: "four days left!" I remember all too well that excitement (I always encourage the entire faculty to line up and do the can-can as our buses leave the lot on the last day.) And I remember those summers when my own kids were little - we'd be by the pool every day, cheering on the swim team...at the beach...sleeping late...

When schools first began to have computers in the mid 90's, teachers were allowed to "check out" a desktop for the summer. I would load that monstrous machine in the back of my car, along with a printer that fed paper with holes-along-the-side, so that my kids could practice word processing. As it turns out, they mostly practiced the game Oregon Trail. They actually got pretty good at it, while I always got bitten by a rattlesnake or died of malaria.

While thoughts of those fun summers "off" are etched in my memory, this summer I will be accompanying fifteen teachers and the Center for International Understanding on a trip to Denmark. We'll be visiting schools there, studying Denmark's wind-energy, and staying with a Danish family. I'm most excited about visiting Odense, the city of Hans Christian Andersen's birth (he's called H.C. Andersen there.) I have many memories of the story of The Little Matchgirl: my great grandmother, who was a school teacher in a one room school house, used to tell me that story when I was a little girl. I'm also looking forward to visiting the Kronborg Castle in Elsinore - Hamlet's castle! (This English major will probably cry.)

My next big adventure will be to reunite with the State Teachers of the Year in Nashville, Tennessee as we convene at the National Forum on Education. Clayton Christensen, author of Disrupting Class, will be speaking, along with other engaging presenters, but we'll also fit in time for site-seeing in Music City!

And last, again with the State Teachers of the Year, I'll be able to play pretend - and this time I'll be an astronaut! We're going to Space Camp in Huntsville, Alabama. I've heard that this is an amazing experience and that we get to float around in zero gravity, among other things.

So...yes, I'll be doing some wonderful things this summer, but even so, I'll miss those lazy, crazy days. Last weekend my granddaughter and I played together on one of the first really warm days, one that ended with a thunderstorm that frightened Taylor. I told her we'd just turn up the music really loud to drown out the thunder.

Then we danced.

Later, after Taylor went home, the following poem found its way to my Writer's Notebook:

Summer

an apricot sun

toasting shoulders

a three-year-old

flip-flopping

in the backyard

all you heat haters

cooling it

in the air conditioned

inside

come out

and see

a bee

a blue-tailed salamander

a waggy, spotted-tongue

puppy

and me

dancing

the storms away

("turn up the music, Nana!")

in the summer,

the season

made for children

and grown-ups

who remember.

Sign of the Times

2009-06-01T09:12:00.006-04:00

I ventured out recently to purchase a picture frame at a large chain that sells homegoods. I knew exactly what I wanted, and as soon as I made the turn into the frame section, I saw it from a distance. As I got closer, I realized that the frame I wanted, my frame, had several nicks and chips on it.

Not to worry - there were two additional frames, exactly like the first one, underneath a pile. I began moving items and uncovered yet another damaged frame. I was patient, though, knowing that the one at the bottom of the stack would be perfect and ready for purchase, hidden from damage down there at the bottom.

Wrong. The third frame did have less nicks on it, but the box surrounding it was ripped and barely hanging on to the very item it was meant to cover. I decided I could easily camouflage the tiny chipped places with a brown marker so I pushed the box back together in an effort to find the price. I was a bit distressed at the asking price but wasn't too worried: certainly the kind employees would offer a discount for damaged goods. I headed to the register.

Luckily, I was in a line that was being serviced by the store manager; this stroke of luck would eliminate another clerk's need to seek higher authority to approve the discount. I waited for several minutes until it was my turn. I explained my saga to the manager, including the fact that there were two other damaged frames back there on the shelf - surely he would want to remove them in an effort to present only the best for his customers.

He spoke politely, "I have to ask full price for this." I assumed he was kidding - or delirious - surely he didn't want $40.00 for a chipped picture frame in a dysfunctional box. He saw my surprise and continued, "We aren't allowed to offer discounts on damaged merchandise. It's a sign of the times."

After explaining, as nicely as possible, that I couldn't believe his company would want to represent themselves that way, I left with nothing to show for my visit except a wasted thirty minutes.

Later, I thought about the budget cuts that are occurring in school districts across the country. The proposal in my own state currently calls for the elimination of thousands of teaching positions while raising class size and shortening the school year. This is in addition to a salary cut that hit our pay checks last week...which, by the way, I felt okay about at the time. I didn't mind giving up .5% of my salary so that hundreds of teacher jobs could be saved; however, it was just after I came to terms with that news and justified it in my mind that I heard about the thousands of teachers and third grade teacher assistants that we are likely to lose in our state if this budget proposal goes through.

I thought about the "damaged goods" that we'll manufacture in schools - students who will leave us ill-prepared to be successful and with little hope for a bright future. What should I say to those students? Oh, I know...it's a sign of the times.

But unlike that picture frame, I can't put my students back on the shelf. We, as educators, have to remain committed to do the best we can with the resources we have available to us, even if the only resources we have are a passion for children and subject matter expertise. I can do it if I run out of paper and I can do it with more students in my classroom, especially if those of us left to do the work continue on with a purposeful effort to make a difference in the lives of children.

Meanwhile we will continue to be a voice for those children as we write our legislators and make our positions known (I'm happy to report that each representative that I have written has written me back. I do feel that they are listening.) In addition, in my state educators are wearing red on Wednesdays to symbolize that "education is bleeding."

But bleeding or not, we'll teach those children - however many sit in our classrooms - because the alternative is not an option.

It reminds me of an old song from the sixties - "Don't Give Up" by Petula Clark:

Don't give up; don't let it get you down.

Don't give up; don't think of leaving town.

Which, in turn, reminds me of a popular Petula Clark album with a catchy name...you guessed it -

Sign of the Times.

Innovations in Teaching

2009-05-24T13:47:00.004-04:00

Mrs. Warnecke, my first grade teacher from forty-five years ago, sent me an old newspaper recently that included an article highlighting her classroom in my elementary school. The date immortalized on my hometown paper is February 28, 1965, and the reporter is eager to disclose one of the newest ideas in teaching, a strategy that exemplifies true innovation in the classroom:

"There's a relatively new activity in educational circles that is guaranteed to delight youngsters, amuse teachers, and horrify parents. Actually, everyone has participated in similar activities, but now it has a name - Show and Tell."

Show and Tell!

I can't believe that this activity was literally born in the sixties. I feel sure that cave-children were acting out the workings of the first wheel or the warmth of the first fire for their cave-teachers. But, no, Barbara W. Short, the "Women's Editor" for the "Women's News" of the Durham Morning Herald, reveals that this new technique is all the rage in schools of the sixties. And her article is chock full of examples.

One student talks about visiting a friend in the hospital and seeing him walk on "crunches." "When he walked, it went 'crunch, crunch, crunch,'" she said.

Another student shares that he hates school because "there ain't no tv."

Interestingly, the Show and Tell conversation turns to history and a heated discussion of Abraham Lincoln and which war occurred during his presidency.

"The first war," says one student. "No," adds another. "It was the second war." A little girl is sure that it was "the thirteenth war."

But the war "made us free" asserted another student.

"I'm not free. I'm six," reported a little blonde. Well, I'm glad we got that straight.

This article made me think about our current innovations in teaching and how we may read about them in forty-four years and think, as we do with Show and Tell, that we've always taught this way.

"There's this board and it looks just like a white board, but you can navigate it like a computer screen. Just touch it! It's amazing..."

"Your class can actually talk to a classroom in another country, just by logging on to your computer."

Will either of these innovations be the Show and Tell of the future? Probably not. It's just difficult to measure up to a classic.

And speaking of classic, the article refers to my teacher as "Mrs. Richard Warnecke." Evidently, back in the sixties, women didn't have their own names.

Mothers in the Middle

2009-05-10T16:37:00.004-04:00

Today is Mother's Day. Although I am myself a mother of four, I always think of MY mother when I think of Mother's Day. Today I went to her house to deliver the yearly MDP (Mother's Day Plant) and as I left I gave her a big 'ol hug.

My mother is 81. She weighs 100 pounds in her heaviest winter clothes and has difficulty getting around - yesterday she tripped over the cane that is supposed to keep her from falling. So as I stood there and held onto my feeble mother today I was thinking about how much more attention she gets from me now that I'm older than she did back when she was really mothering me, those crazy adolescent years when she was responsible for everything I ate, everything I wore, and all transportation I needed to get me where I needed to go. I didn't appreciate her then like I do now. And now, of course, she's not taking me anywhere. I'm the one running the "elderly shuttle," as she calls it.

As I drove away, I thought of the mothers at the other end of the spectrum, too...new mothers. My stepdaughter came in today with a pricey purse in tow, surely not purchased by my three-year-old granddaughter, Taylor. And think of those young women who have newborns. They surely get gushed over when it's their "First Mother's Day."

But there's another group of mothers out there. Those Mothers in the Middle are suffering, and I see their pain. One reason I know so much about middle school motherhood is because I watched my own children turn from precious mommy lovers to evil mouth clicking demons when they went to middle school. Not only did I not know anything when my kids were teenagers, their friends' parents were awesome! I would hear, "But everybody's parents let them do more than you let me do!" And I would answer, "Well, I guess I just love my children more than other parents love theirs."

The real reason I know that middle school mothers are suffering is because I see it when they come to talk to me about their children. I hear it every year:

"He always made straight A's until middle school."

"She's never cared about boys until now, and I can't get her off the phone."

"He must be hanging around with bad kids. He's never used that language before." (I've always wondered who the bad kid's parents blame the behavior on.)

Some mothers come in for a conference and spend the entire time frantically explaining the child's behavior at home, detail-by-detail. I feel like they just need to be heard; surely they don't expect me to come home with them and start handing out expectations and rewards in an effort to turn around the behavior.

Some mothers argue and place blame on the teacher while others lament "I don't know what to do with him either. He's going to give me a nervous breakdown."

On this Mother's Day I'd like to tell all of you Mothers in the Middle - it will be okay. My children turned themselves around just as they began to experience a little freedom. A driver's license and a car can really boost a negative attitude (mainly because they want to keep those car keys.) And somewhere along the time my daughter went to college she called to tell me she sure missed all the things I used to do for her. (It was especially helpful that three of my children didn't have air conditioned dorm rooms. August in the South can sure make a kid homesick.)

Middle school is a tough time for kids - those are some very difficult years developmentally. If you don't believe it, think back on your own adolescent years.

Oops. I think I better go back and give my poor little mother another hug. And another MDP, too.

Are US Children Well-behaved?

2009-04-19T13:46:00.006-04:00

I've met with some world travelers recently who say that children in other countries are undisciplined. I heard a story yesterday about children running around willy-nilly in Europe with no parent in sight to reprimand them. Some native Europeans recently told me that American children are perceived as very compliant and well-behaved to natives of other countries. They believe our children behave nicely, in school and at home.

I find this line of thinking difficult to understand, especially in light of how our children are depicted in the media. For example, several years ago, I would often see a popular fast food commercial where a child at dinner is about to dig into a bucket of chicken.

"Mom. I don't DO fried!" the child announced as the mother explained that this particular chicken was dipped in batter with secret ingredients and was therefore the best chicken ever fried.

I sat there watching that commerical and thought about what would have happened to me if I had made such an announcement to my own mother. I would have been dipped and fried myself.

Currently, another commercial has hit our air waves that makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I've watched numerous times in the past couple of weeks as an adorable little girl gets sassy with her mother for serving her "minced fish."

She says, "What is this, minced? You feed me minced? You ever catch a minced fish?!" Her mother sweetly serves her the name brand of fish, saying, "Here you go, Honey," and the little girl snidely announces, "That's more like it!"

Are you kidding me? Are we allowing our children to talk to us like this in America? And if the answer is yes, then what are teachers supposed to do with those sassy children when they come to school? Answer to their every whim? Look the other way when they are blatently disrespectful?

Let's just say that parents aren't allowing this disrespect, and the media is misrepresenting the behavior of our children. Why are we supporting a media that puts those types of behaviors on television for our children to emulate? Teachers already deal with enough bad press as we are often depicted on movies and television shows as buffoons (think Ferris Bueller's Day Off.) Are we going to continue to let our children and grandchildren be influenced by such negative advertising?

I, for one, am not. I once wrote a letter to People magazine and then to a pharmaceutical company that sold medication for ADHD. The magazine ran an advertisement in 1998 that had a picture of a middle school aged boy with the word FREAK stamped on his forehead in inch high letters. In small print under the picture were the words "Why would anybody say that?" in tiny letters, certainly tiny enough to be considered "fine print."

I immediately wrote the company and explained that while I understood the concept behind the ad, I wondered how I would explain to my middle school son, who had been taking medication for ADHD since kindergarten, why a company would insinuate that someone would consider him a "freak." I certainly had never treated him like he was different. We had an issue to deal with, and we did. Plain and simple.

Thank goodness the editors of People magazine agreed with me and pulled the ad from the next issue. I received apologies from them and from the pharmaceutical company - the President wrote to tell me that "someone lost a job over this."

I now am on a mission to help folks in the media understand that they are encouraging our kids to think that being nasty is cool. And I'm starting with the fish folks. You can, too.

Write to:

Mrs. Paul's Consumer Affairs

P.O. BOX 91000

Allentown, PA

18109

or go to www.mrspauls.com

I, for one, will not be eating fish out of a box any time soon. Minced or otherwise.

Speaking Out for Teaching...

2009-03-28T16:27:00.006-04:00

In my current job I travel the state and talk to people about teaching. My official title is "Teacher Ambassador." Occasionally, I have to arrive at my point of presentation the night before, usually because it's too far away for driving in the morning and then speaking to a group and pretending I have any brain cells firing. Such was the case this week when I drove toward a college campus three hours from my house. Knowing I had to be there at 8 AM, and knowing I didn't want to get up at 4 AM to do it, I drove there the afternoon before and had the pleasure of eating in a local restaurant near the campus.

Well, I guess I could call it pleasurable. I always feel a little odd, eating alone. On this night, I felt the need to tell the hostess, "Table for one. I'm traveling." Lord knows, she didn't give one hoot. But I felt I had to explain lest she consider me a loser. This particular restaurant was one of the Southern down home cooking variety, and I ordered beef stew, mashed potatoes, fried okra, and biscuits. By the time my sweet tea and biscuits came, I didn't give one hoot that I was sitting alone either. I settled in for the feast.

And then it happened. Just as I pierced the first hot, just-fried piece of okra with my fork, I witnessed this exchange between two women sitting at tables across the restaurant from each other:

"Hey, Louise! How ya doin'? How's Bobbie Lou?"

"Hey, Edna! I'm good! Bobbie Lou's a sophomore in college now. She's going into teaching. I tried to talk her out of it, but she feels drawn to it."

I don't know what happened just then, but when I came to my senses that piece of okra was on the floor two tables up the aisle. The lady at the table beside me looked at me like I was crazy, but all I had to offer was "oops."

Okay, so here I am, a Teacher of the Year for a state that has almost 100,000 teachers, and I feel that it's my responsibility to set Louise straight. I must stand up and make a speech, I thought. At the very least I need to pull up a chair, sidle up beside her, and explain THINGS.

But I was frozen. I was playing out the scenario in my head. I would just walk over, say "may we talk a minute?" and then sit down with a complete stranger. That seemed, well, weird. Would I introduce myself? Would I say "I'm the Teacher of the Year in this state" and then she would say, "So what?"

I kept telling myself that these people came out for a nice dinner and probably didn't anticipate sharing it with a complete stranger. But that didn't help. I still felt the urge to go do my teacher-ly duty...I was just about to push my chair back...and then I stopped in my tracks. What stopped me was that I was dressed for traveling, and I was looking pretty grungy. I didn't want to represent my state's teachers that way. I was afraid I'd give her ammunition - "Well, honey, you can't even afford good clothes." Hmmm... So Louise never found out why it's a good thing Bobbie Lou is going to be a teacher. But now she'll know...if only she'll read these words:

Five Reasons Bobbie Lou Will Be Happy As A Teacher

1. Okay, let's talk about the money. I'm pretty sure that was your first line of fire when it came to encouraging Bobbie Lou to pursue another profession. And I get it. Of course, teachers should be paid more. And so should law enforcement officers, and firefighters, and soldiers. And as long as celebrities and professional athletes are being paid obscene salaries, and CEO's are getting bonuses that are more than I'll make in a lifetime, I will argue that our society has things a little mixed up. But the point, Louise, is that Bobbie Lou will be fine. Don't forget in order to even compare a teacher's salary to the rest of the world you need to add two extra months - most salaries you hear about are based on a ten month salary schedule. And there are opportunities for more money in the summer - there's summer school and consultant work available for teachers who may tutor or present workshops. Oh, I do get it, Louise. But I can tell you that I've survived fine on my salary. I even did okay as a single parent for nine years. I don't own a yacht and I don't travel to fancy destinations. But I do okay. And all the money in the world can't give me what I get back (see #2).

2. I know it's cliche to even talk about "making a difference." But are there any other professionals who shape the future of the world like teachers do? Is there any other profession with such a hold on the social inequities and injustices we see in our communities? And besides your parents, who in fact made you who you are today, Louise? I suspect it was a teacher. Wouldn't it be amazing if Bobbie Lou could be that person for someone? Or for many someone's?

3. Being a teacher means working in buildings full of laughter. Not only is the soundtrack of a teacher's life full of childlike laughter but also includes the sounds of chorus concerts and football game cheers...all the things you loved in school yourself, Louise. Bobbie Lou will be able to participate in the real-life version of High School Musical and The Cat in the Hat. She'll witness first love and first heartbreak and children trying to determine who they are and who they will be. Her life will be full of stories that will entertain her entire family, including you, for generations to come.

4. Bobbie Lou will work side by side with friends for life. Being elbow to elbow in the trenches with committed educators who feel the same way about kids is a job satisfaction that many can never experience. If you're skeptical, just go visit a faculty meeting in a school. You'll feel the air of "we did it - we made it through one more day together for these kids." You'll want to be a part of it yourself. I always tell teachers that one of the best parts of teaching is working with our best friends. Something about planning lessons together, hanging out around a copy machine and working through the stresses of teaching together, and listening to each other's teacher stories makes a group bond. You'll be glad Bobbie Lou has such a strong support system at work.

5. And last, Bobbie Lou will pull from many areas of expertise to teach her students. But she also will pull from the lessons that she learned from her first teacher - you. She will model all of the morals and values that you taught her, from kindness to empathy to love for other human beings. In a way, Louise, that makes you a teacher, too.

Louise, I hope you'll reconsider and support Bobbie Lou's decision to be a teacher. There is, of course, no finer profession.

Age is Just a Number...

2009-03-24T09:45:00.000-04:00

My daughter is 28 today. This is exciting because she's in the prime of her life, working hard on her doctorate while interning at a local hospital with kids who have cancer. On a brighter note, she's a dancer for an NFL football team, and she works at a dance studio with little girls who would like to dance professionally someday, too. She just returned from a cruise to the Bahamas and lives happily in a metropolitan city with her nervous dog, Chance, and crazy cat, Lil Mama. She lives a charmed life.

Chance

Lil Mama looks cute here, but she's a WILDcat!

But our discussion yesterday about her upcoming birthday led me to some troubling thoughts - Am I actually old enough to have a 28 year old child? How did this happen? I can't be much older than 25 myself. And goodness knows, she was just born. I've just caught up on my sleep after the all-nighters I had to pull with that child! And I'm still worn out from the dance rehearsals and recitals - all those auditoriums where I sat and graded papers, while she danced in her little tutus, are fresh in my memory. My daughter's high school graduation, and college one, for that matter, were mere days ago. So celebrating her 28th birthday seems anachronistic, out of order in our usual chronological life.

But it's okay because I'm certainly not old enough to have an adult child. Numerous times recently, while out shopping with my three-year-old granddaughter (my stepdaughter's beautiful child), someone will say something like "Tell Mommy to buy you this candy" or "You must look like your daddy with your blonde hair and blue eyes because you don't look like Mommy." Sometimes I correct them - "I am Nana" - and sometimes I don't. Maybe it's okay that they think I'm in my twenties.

As a teacher, it's routine for my students to think I'm much older than I am. I remember thinking all of my elementary school teachers were in their 60's. And when I had the opportunity to be reunited with my first grade teacher Mrs. Warnecke after 45 years, my first thought when I saw her was "she's my age now." She had only been 23 years old when she taught me. So the years have squeezed together a little, and we're closer to the same age now than we were then.

The ultimate compliment came yesterday, though. I was working at my school, which I do every two weeks while I'm out of the classroom serving as a Teacher Ambassador for my state. Every time I'm there, it's difficult to get down the hall because of seventh and eighth graders hugging me, yelling my name, and trying to quickly catch me up on their lives. The sixth graders don't really know me, though. I've tried to talk to them as much as I can on my brief visits, but the truth is that I'm a stranger to them. And that hurts.

At least it did until yesterday. I was standing in the hallway talking to some teachers and my principal. We were laughing and sharing stories when my principal said something really funny. The three of us teachers were laughing until we were crying as we noticed Ms. Walton's class coming down the hall on their way back from lunch. I looked at her and said, "Our principal is stupid!" and continued laughing. Of course I meant "stupid" in only an endearing and figurative way. We wiped our tears and went on about our business.

Well, tonight my friend Ms. Walton called me to tell me what transpired after that chance meeting in the hallway. She said that after the class walked into the room and got settled, a student raised his hand and said to her, "Ms. Walton, that eighth grader is going to get in trouble for calling the principal stupid."

Eighth grader. I'm an eighth grader! Yee Haw!

Now it's clear. It's impossible for me to have a 28-year-old child.

Thank you, sixth grader. I hope I teach you next year when I return to my school. You will definitely be my favorite student.

And happy birthday to my impossibly grown-up daughter. It's been an amazing, albeit too quick, 28 years!

The Numbers Game

2009-03-02T19:05:00.009-05:00

I was a good math student when I was in elementary school. I had no problem with addition and subtraction, and I made straight A's in multiplication; old Mrs. Kelly who kept losing her glasses (we were too scared to tell her they were on top of her head) made us memorize the times tables. It wasn't until I got to junior high that math became a problem.

In seventh grade, Mrs. Sigmon could never say my name correctly so I slid down in my seat, trying to be invisible, so she wouldn't call on me. In eighth grade I had an algebra teacher who was married to a member of a local motorcycle gang. Mrs. Lawson came to school bruised and bleeding on many days; there were rumors about her husband's abusive behavior. And although she was sweet and really tried to help me, I could only concentrate on the bruises on her hands when she'd point to my paper.

Before long sporting events and boys received more of my attention than math, and I found myself slipping in that subject area. Luckily, I was an avid reader and writer so I didn't give up on school altogether. I just gave up on anything related to numbers. As an adult, I struggle still. I can't remember a phone number from the phone book to the phone unless I repeat it...555-1234, 555-1234, 555-1234...

That's why I'm having a hard time wrapping myself around the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act signed into law by President Obama last month. Every article I read sounds like this to me: "a gazillion million dollars will go to this, but of that gazillion million, a trillion billion must be set aside for that, and two dollars will be charged to every homeowner who has a dog with a spotted tongue, but homeowners with cats that have more than eight whiskers will be paid a stipend of one dollar per whisker over the allotted eight."

Seriously. I wake up in the morning, and it's on the news - numbers, numbers, numbers. Every email I open continues the counting. Here's what I read this morning:

Already $2 billion in the red, the state faces a $3 billion shortfall next fiscal year.

And this afternoon:

The Governor may finally be thinking about raising new revenue to address next year's $4 billion shortfall.

Wait. How did the "shortfall" gain a billion dollars from this morning until this afternoon? Did we spend a billion dollars during the day today? Or is it only one billion? I mean do we take the $3 billion mentioned first and add the "already $2 billion?" But doesn't that make $5 billion and not $4 billion? I'm so confused.

Here's what I'm not confused about: we are in the middle of a critical economic crisis, and of course it's affecting our schools. I'm saddened to hear stories about after-school programs ending and teacher assistants losing their jobs. But I do know this: teachers will rise above any budget shortfalls, economic downturns, or billion dollar deficits thrown at them and continue to educate our nation's children every single day until the "recovery" is here.

I sincerely believe that I can take my students outside and teach them using a blade of grass if I have to...and that's free. I've heard it over and over the past few months - "with crisis comes opportunity." I believe teachers will grasp the opportunity to educate children with the same sense of urgency we've always had. Teachers are innovative and creative, and it's going to take more than a shortfall of a gazillion million dollars to knock us down.

Why? Because the alternative is not an option. We cannot refuse to educate the children of America while the adults of this country try to straighten things out. Also, it's those very children who will grow up and be the adults who make sure this doesn't happen again. And because of that, we must work to teach them what they need to know to be able to grow up and do their jobs effectively.

Most likely our students are going to need a great deal of instruction on numbers.

Maybe I can sit in on a class...

A Shout Out to Preschool Teachers Everywhere!

2009-02-20T19:24:00.011-05:00

Last week I gave a speech to beginning teachers and mentors in a large school district in my state. I always begin my presentations by trying to get to know my audience, much like the way I get to know the students in my classroom on the first day of school. So I begin by playing a little game I call "That's Me!" I say a statement like "I am a high school teacher" and all the high school teachers jump up and shout, "That's Me!" It's just loads of fun. So on this day I named everything I could think of from beginning teachers to mentors to elementary, middle, and high school teachers to administrators to people who wandered in off the street because they heard there was food.

When I finished I asked, "Did I forget anyone?" All of a sudden a gang of teachers jumped up and yelled, "Preschool teachers!" Preschool teachers...oh my gosh! How could I have forgotten about them? I acknowledged them and apologized for the oversight. I then took a minute to tell them about my experience with my granddaughter Taylor as she started preschool last August. It had been a defining moment.

So as I was driving home, I had a little time (three hours, to be exact) to think about the role of the preschool teacher. I was thinking about how cute those little kiddies are and how they never curse at the teacher or forget their supplies or homework. I had some nice little daydreams about becoming a preschool teacher, just another idea in a long list of potential opportunities that I've thought about recently. I must be having a career identity crisis.

Today I had the chance to test my skills. I had Taylor over so I thought we'd have some school time after nap. We started a little shaky, though. I first became aware that Taylor was awake when I heard her shrieking, "It's a HEART ATTACK! It's a HEART ATTACK!" from the bed. Apparently, the dog was excited to hear Taylor rustling in the covers and jumped on her as a friendly doggie greeting. Taylor was not quite as excited.

After a nice snack of cheese nips and apple juice (see...I know what they eat), I gathered the materials and started "school." First I wrote Taylor's name in big letters with my marker and asked her to copy them with hers. She did really well with "T." She did pretty well with "A." Then she took the marker and wrote on my sleeve. Realizing that the first green mark was not nearly big enough, she made another one, this time longer and thicker, and running the length of my arm. Before I could reprimand her, she began writing on her own hand.

"Taylor," I said. "What's Mommy going to say when she sees marker on your hand?"

She continued working on her body art creation. "She will say she LUB me."

Hmmm. I then used my best refocus tools to get her back on track. Cookies.

She attempted the other letters but was obviously losing interest so I decided to try something I had heard preschool teachers talk about: a part of their curriculum called "dramatic play." Taylor loves to play "pretend" so I thought this activity would be very educational.

We walked over to the toy box, and I grabbed some play cups, plates, and a little set of utensils - a spoon, a little strainer, and a measuring cup. Taylor immediately grabbed the strainer and came at me like a race horse out of a gate. Before I knew what was happening she announced, "Let's flush out your nose" and jammed the cute little strainer halfway up my face. I was horrified, not to mention in pain, so I tried to find a diversion. I reached for a ball, but she was on me again, this time explaining, "We have to get all that gooky out!"

Finally I had the ball in my clutches.

"Here, Taylor. Catch." Taylor obediently caught the ball...then she promptly beaned me in the just flushed nose.

"We're playing foot-fall," she squealed.

Then I got another idea. Preschool teachers surely take their students outside to learn about nature. Taylor and I filled her Disney Princess pitcher with water and braced ourselves against the winter elements to water some flowers. She did great for .2 seconds. Then she "watered" my car. It's okay. The ice will melt in the spring.

It was about that time I realized that I may not ever be a good preschool teacher. So I decided to conduct a little research.

"Taylor," I asked. "What do you learn at school?"

"My A's and B's" she answered.

"What else?"

"I learn to be nice. No biting. No pushing."

I'm thinking...no nose flushing?

But it's okay, Taylor. We can play school like that anytime you want....because I LUB you. And thank you for helping me understand that there is no preschool classroom in my future. Not for all the cheese nips and apple juice in the world.

Principal Principles

2009-02-13T20:48:00.004-05:00

I've never had the desire to be a school administrator. Not for one second. I've always known that my place is in front of a classroom with chalk in my hand. Well, times have changed, and there are no more chalkboards. But I still have no administrator aspirations. However, I've just had an amazing opportunity, and I feel that I may have a message for others who see a school principalship in the future.

I have recently had the opportunity to talk to school communities - including teachers, support staff, parents, and students - about what makes a good administrator. What I have found is that there are characteristics that are common across school levels and community demographics when it comes to defining what makes a principal great. Here are the results of my unofficial research on the "Principles of Great Principals."

*The school is a family.

There is an air of connectedness that any visitor can sense immediately when walking into a school that is led by a great principal. I've heard it referred to as "a community of caring." Teachers and parents talk about the school leader being accessible, and students feel at home in the building, aware that the principal cares about them. One teacher said, "If I needed him right now, I could talk to him right now, no matter what he's doing." The sense of teamwork is apparent, and just as good teachers maintain a family atmosphere in a classroom, good principals establish that same feeling in the school as a whole. There are frequent celebrations, and the work is fun for everyone in the building.

*Teachers are treated as professionals.

Over and over, school after school, I heard these words: "He lets me teach." Although great principals are instructional leaders who guide the staff in the best interest of student learning, they do not micro-manage their teachers. Instead, teachers are given the flexibility to provide instruction that is meaningful for the students in their classrooms. Similarly, great principals were teachers first. As one teacher described his principal, "he's never forgotten where he's been." Since they are able to remember their days in the classroom, they treat their teachers with the respect they deserve and give them great amounts of instructional freedom.

*Instruction in the school is data-driven.

Great principals disaggregate data schoolwide so they can give their teachers a "big picture" understanding of instructional needs. They also take that data and determine methods for sharing best practices among the staff as well as for selecting professional development opportunities that correspond with those methods. Teachers are empowered to use data on individual students in their classrooms as they plan lessons that promote student growth. In addition, the academic culture is celebrated as principals reward academic success in ways that motivate students and staff.

*They are student centered.

Great principals know their students. They know their names, their stories, their strengths and weaknesses. They know all about their families, their dreams, and their limitations. And walk through a school with a great principal, and you'll see him/her with an arm around a student, having a conversation about a recent test score or athletic event. Students love good principals; they know when they're cared about, and they know when an administrator makes a difference in a school.

*They reach out to families.

Great principals make an effort to include families in the community of a school. They offer various opportunities for parents, including Parent Advisory Councils, Open House nights, question and answer sessions, and frequent communication via phone messages, emails, and publications sent home with the students. One principal I met explained how he visits the home of every rising freshman before they begin high school. Now there's an example of going above and beyond the job description!

*They have undying energy.

As one teacher explained it, "He squeezes 28 hours into 24." Great principals are in those schools early in the morning and late at night. They can be seen at sporting events and chorus concerts, and they pick up trash and plant flowers on the campus. They spend their days working with teachers on instruction, dealing with student discipline, and communicating with parents and others in the community while working into the night supervising sporting events and attending band concerts. During their "off" time, they are reading educational research in an effort to find strategies that will enable their teachers to make a difference in their classrooms.

*They promote school spirit and teamwork.

There is a palpable spirit in a school that has a good leader. It can be felt when listening to the morning announcements and seen on the hallway walls. Everything is a celebration, and everyone in the school is happy to be there. Academic success is cheered just as athletics are, and teachers and students know they are valued. Visitors who come in the building must think This would be a great place to work! Everyone is happy and relaxed even though there is a sense of urgency concerning learning and student achievement. And everyone from the cafeteria staff and the custodians to the students, teachers, and office staff will announce with pride that they have the best school and wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

*They develop leaders.

Great principals work diligently to ensure that their teachers are equipped to be leaders in the classroom. Resources and supplies are available, and opportunities for professional development are encouraged. Student leadership is also valued in schools with great principals. Students are given opportunities to excel in areas of interest to them, whether they are athletes or members of the chess club. And school principals serve as important mentors to their assistant principals and interns.

As one teacher said, "He makes me want to be a better teacher." A leader of leaders - that's what a great principal is.

Career Change?

2009-02-03T20:46:00.007-05:00

I ended up teaching in a middle school the same way many teachers do. There were no positions in the high school. At first I taught middle school language arts while coaching cheerleaders at the nearby high school and waiting patiently for some high school teacher to retire or have a baby or move to another state.

But one day a few years into my career, I woke up and loved middle school. I've talked about it before. I realized at some point that middle school students are funny and smart and challenging and lovable; they emcompass everything I could ever need to experience job fulfillment. I love watching them participate in their first competitive sports, their first chorus performances, and their first student councils. I see them fall in love for the first time, get their hearts broken, and possibly struggle in school like never before.

And when those things happen, I'm there...cheering them on, wiping their tears, giving them hugs...I love a middle school child.

But something has happened in the past couple of days that may be life changing and career altering. I have fallen in love with elementary school children.

In the past two days I have visited two different elementary schools. And I am finding myself surprisingly drawn to children who are no taller than my knees. The reasons are clear: one - they love me, and two - they are cute as bugs!

When I say they love me, I mean all I have to do is walk in a room, and there they are, all grins and waves. I've even gotten a couple of hugs from tiny total strangers. So simply put - I love them back: I love their little bitty clothes and shoes and lunchboxes and their huge gaptoothed smiles.

All of a sudden I think I would love to teach elementary school. There's only one problem. I don't know how. I feel pretty good about motivating an adolescent to read. However, I have no clue how to help a kindergartener recognize that A is for Apple.

I would love those little cuties, though. We would hug and play, and I promise I would resist the urge to bite the little darlings. Maybe there's an elementary classroom somewhere in my future. But for now it seems those schools are well staffed. I guess I'll have to wait for someone to retire...or have a baby...or.....

Here's my buddy Samuel. I plucked him right out of the lunch line. Those snaggly teeth were just adorable to me, and he was so cute in his little vest!

I found this cutie patootie getting ready for lunch and asked his name. He barely whispered it so I told him I didn't hear him. He took a deep breath and yelled, ETHAN!!!" across the cafeteria. He was so excited to get his picture taken.

Not to be outdone by Ethan, Christopher asked to have his picture taken, too.

And just an end note - Sarah is a precious fifth grader who gave me a tour of her elementary school. When we arrived at the teacher's lounge she announced, "This is where the teachers go to relax when they have finished all of their work and don't have any more papers to grade." I tried really hard not to laugh while envisioning a time like that.

Welcome to Kelly Gallagher!

2009-01-22T10:22:00.016-05:00

We are honored here at TheDreamTeacher to have a visit from accomplished author Kelly Gallagher! Kelly is renowned for books including Teaching Adolescent Writers and Building Adolescent Readers, both published by Stenhouse and both valuable information for any teacher's library.

For the past week, we've been focusing on Kelly's new book, Readicide: How Schools are Killing Reading and What You Can Do About It, which will be released by Stenhouse on February 10th. (Order it HERE!) Kelly has stopped by to answer teacher's questions about the sneak preview that we presented here last week. Here are your questions and Kelly's answers during this exciting discussion:

1. My question has to do with the assessment of student progress in reading. If the current assessments are driving us to Readicide, as they seem to be, what do you think is a fair way to monitor teacher success in helping students gain the full range of reading skills, and most especially comprehension/higher order skills? As much as I disagree with the way we assess reading on a mass high-stakes scale now, I've also been in a lot of schools where teachers were not getting the job done, most often because they really didn't have the deep understanding of how to do it well. How do we spot those teachers and help them?

There are three questions that can be asked after the reading of any text: What does it say? What does it mean? What does it matter? These are the levels of assessment I want to assess after my students read. (More on this in my book, Deeper Reading). I also want them to consider what the text didn't say. I design all my reading assessments with these levels of thinking in mind. This means all my assessment requires written response. No bubbling. If I want to know my students are getting to deeper levels, they have to demonstrate this via writing.

2. I agree with Mr. Gallagher that giving kids time to read during school is important, but what do you do when there are a few kids who simply don't read during this time? For example, I have one student who says he hates reading. We looked through my classroom library together, and there was nothing that looked interesting to him. We've looked through the school's library with the same result. When we finally find a book he's willing to try, he looks around the room during most of our reading time. During independent reading time, I run guided reading groups, have student-teacher conferences, or give individual students reading assessments (DRAs), so I can't read with him every day. How do I make sure independent reading time is a valuable use of time for ALL kids?
Frankly, I do not know that you can. There may be that one kid out there who will not read. Whenever I get a kid like that, I want to know if it is a case of "will" or a case of "skill." Does he not want to read? Or is it that he cannot read? I sit down and assess the child's ability to read. I start really reluctant readers with comic books and magazines. I also start by sharing with them the real-world reasons why reading is a worthwhile undertaking. That said, I do not think it is possible (given our class sizes and other obstacles) to turn every kid on to reading. I try to touch as many of them as I can.

3. I recently discussed the unbelievable breadth of the English Language Arts curriculum with one of my colleagues. As ELA teachers, we both feel the pressure to teach students everything that involves reading, writing, listening, speaking, and viewing. Unfortunately, this sometimes comes at the cost of valuing quantity over quality - an unfortunate step towards Readicide. Your recommendation was to break the curriculum into 2 subjects - reading and writing. Although there would be clear overlaps between the two subjects, there would also be distinct objectives for each subject. This would, however, involve hiring additional staff and probably lengthening the instructional day. I firmly believe in an integrated curriculum, but sometimes, when the day is too short and the curriculum is too daunting, this approach seems the way to go. Mr. Gallagher, I know you have focused on both reading and writing curriculums in your work. Have any of your experiences provided insight on the pros/cons of this issue? Are there other models available for creating a more purposeful and critical curriculum?

I would not favor any proposal that separates reading and writing into two subjects. Instead of one hour of reading and one hour of writing, why don't we give them two hours of language arts? What we need to be doing is lobbying for more time (e.g. double periods) for English classes. I talk in Readicide about Marzano's work where he found that the largest impediment to teaching the standards are the standards themselves. Oddly, I take comfort in that. We cannot fit 22 years of curriculum into K-12. What we can do is slow down and make sure that our limited time with our students is maximized. This means we read and write every single day.

5. I have a couple of different questions regarding the ideas presented in Readicide. First of all, I respect the notion that teachers need to find their voices, and begin discussing the problems caused by high-stakes testing, but I cringe at the idea of doing so outside of my teamroom or Friday's "happy hour". My principal made it clear his first year that teachers without his "sense of urgency" could be replaced. I love my school and my community; I don't plan on leaving. Thus, do you have any suggestions for how to begin some "hard talk" in an appropriate, professional manner? I don't want to come across as a complainer or not a team-player when everyone else has accepted multiple-choice testing as the present reality of education.

I don't think there is a generic answer to this question. Much depends on the dynamics of the site---the principal, the make-up of the faculty, the culture of the school. A couple of suggestions: start a professional book club on your campus. Even if you only start with a few teachers, find like-minded teachers and read together. Read what the research says about reading. Share articles. When discussing with other faculty members, always center your discussion around the following question: What is best for kids? I don't think it is about a "sense of urgency." No one has a stronger sense of urgency than I do. It is about meeting in a professional manner and applying our sense of urgency in a way that best helps kids.

Secondly, my colleagues and I have struggled with how to ensure and assess nightly reading at home. We have tried weekly reading logs on which students respond to the reading with questions, summaries, illustrations, connections, etc. as well as simple reading calendars, requiring students to note titles, pages and genres. No matter what we try, these logs always end up being submitted late, incomplete, insufficiently completed or neglected entirely, with struggling readers apathetically accepting zero after zero. It seems the only students who turn them in consistently are the ones I know are reading anyway! Do you have any tips for ensuring reading outside of school? Thank you so much for many of the suggestions in your book! My teammate and I are going to start assigning weekly articles as a way to increase our students' background knowledge.

I share in my early books the logs I have kept with my students. I don't keep them any more. I have simplified things greatly. To get an A, B, or C in my class, you not only have to earn the specific grade, you also have to read 1 book a month on your own (This book-a-month does not include the novels and works of non-fiction that we are reading together). If you are a reluctant reader, read easier books. If you are an excellent reader, read books at your level. Students fill out One-pagers each month for accountability purposes. I should also add that I have to stop repeatedly and remind my students why they should make the effort to read (See my firstbook, Reading Reasons).

Thanks goes out to our visiting author, Kelly Gallagher, as well to as our teachers who submitted questions. We appreciate Mr. Gallagher including us on his BlogTour and wish him well as he continues his travels!

Holding Dreams...

2009-01-20T08:44:00.003-05:00

Langston Hughes penned "Hold fast to dreams...." in the young years of the twentieth century, some time before Martin Luther King delivered his immortal speech in August of 1963. Today the dream of a nation will come to pass as we watch history in the making alongside the memorial of a man who proclaimed emancipation a century ago.

I have spoken of our responsibility as teachers to explain to our students that this day, this inauguration, is important because it represents the realization of those dreams to so many in our country. As a little girl who grew up in the South, I too have dreamed of a day when individuals are judged by attributes other than skin color.

When I was five or six, my family, like many others in the sixties, owned only one car. My mother would deliver my Daddy to work each morning, and we would repeat the trip in the afternoon to pick him up. Every day on our return home, we would stop at the same stop sign, at the same intersection, and wait for traffic. To the left of that intersection was a house, and outside of the house, a little Black girl played every afternoon. I would always rest my chin on the edge of the open window and look at her, hoping that one day she would wave at me, maybe be my friend. For months she didn't look my way. But every day I would stare at that little girl and her toys and wish that I could just jump out of my car and run to her and make a friend.

Finally one day I looked her way and she looked up. I smiled at her. Then...she gave me some nonverbal communication - the finger kind.

My face fell. My heart was broken. For years I couldn't understand why that little girl was mad at me when I didn't even know her. But as I grew older, I began to understand. I read books like Maya Angelou's I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and Mildred Taylor's Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, and I knew what had made that little Black girl so angry at a little White girl like me.

My hope is that, as adults, that little girl and I have chatted in some grocery store line or have shared a smile in the shopping mall. Maybe I've taught her kids; maybe she's taught mine. Nevertheless, we are in a different world now, chronologically a long way from the 1960's, even if there are times when, emotionally, we are still close to those days. It is my hope that the events of today will help close that huge divide, that little girls of all colors will wave...and smile...and play together.

Dan Fogelberg sings a song entitled "Same Old Auld Lang Syne." The lyrics tell of a man who runs into a former girlfriend on Christmas Eve when the snow is falling. The last line is "and as I turned to make my way back home, the snow turned into rain." I've always enjoyed the metaphorical intent of that line, realizing that the image of snow and its clean, quiet peacefulness is contrasted to the dreary, repetitious rain.

I've just endured a weekend full of rain. I've walked my dog and returned soggy and shivering for three days. But today I woke to falling snow and a bright sun shining on a crisp, beautiful lawn. That experience, and the events of this day, remind me of another poem by Langston Hughes, "A New Song."

...the past

is done.

A new dream flames

against the sun.

We welcome a new dream to the Presidency of the United States and a new dream to Americans, of all colors and creeds. Perhaps we can finally say "United We Stand," and it will be true.

Are Schools Killing Reading?

2009-01-13T08:59:00.014-05:00

As a middle school reading teacher, I often see firsthand the untimely death of reading for pleasure. Those little darlings who squealed with delight over reading their first words in elementary schools come to me and act as if they're being tortured when I say we're going to read. Oh, they're okay when I read to them, but the suggestion of silent reading sounds like punishment to my very active preteens and teenagers.

Every year I ask the students in my school to answer this question: what do you do when you read? And every year I get the same answer - "I look at words." I tell them that if I place a book in front of my cat's face, she will "look at words." Is she reading? The discussion continues - middle school kids like activity. I tell them if I could make reading more like playing a video game or football, they'd love it. And they agree. So I spend the entire school year teaching them ways to make reading interactive, something that requires more than "looking at words." We interact with the text in many ways - we think aloud, we annotate, we visualize - the list is long. But still it's true. Most of my students aren't excited about reading like they were in elementary school. And some openly hate it.

As I read Kelly Gallagher's new book, Readicide: How Schools are Killing Reading and What We Can Do About It, I thought about all the things I've tried to do to keep reading alive. I've written short novels myself, unpublished but still my attempt to provide material that I know interests my students. I have dressed up in my wedding gown (veil and all), fairy costumes (I was the Reading Fairy), and even as Britney Spears (that one was a stretch, but we were teaching reading with a music theme that day!) I've brought in, or cooked, almost every food my classes have read about - a character in Pinballs loves Kentucky Fried Chicken; Gerald loved his Aunt Queen's pancakes in Forged by Fire. I've tap danced and once I did a handspring (that was in my younger days.)

So when I read Gallagher's title, I can say that I felt a little defensive. I'm not killing reading, I thought. But a sneak peek at the book proves that I need to understand that perhaps all teachers aren't willing to pull their wedding gowns out of the closet while gradually having more difficulty getting them zipped due to the vast amount of food being consumed in the classroom. There are actually schools who are contributing to "readicide," a malady defined by Gallagher as a "the systematic killing of the love of reading often exacerbated by the inane, mind-numbing practices found in schools."

Want to know more? I'm excited to announce that Kelly Gallagher is going to be making a Blog Tour Stop right here at The Dream Teacher. Click HERE to download the book, scheduled to be released on February 10th by Stenhouse Publishers. And it's definitely worth the peek! Gallagher begins with an in depth discussion of how testing has impacted our teaching - he calls it "The Elephant in the Room." Then he ends the book with a nice appendix that includes "101 Books My Reluctant Readers Love to Read." Every teacher needs to see that list.

Most importantly, Mr. Gallagher, a full time teacher at Magnolia High School in Anaheim, California, will be stopping by to answer any questions that DreamTeacher readers may have. So click on the link, read the book, and submit your questions in the comment section.

And thanks to Kelly Gallagher who is on a mission to stop readicide in our country. It's a huge undertaking (no pun intended) to end the killing of reading, but this book is a great way to start. Submit your questions, and let's get this discussion started!

Apples for the Teacher

2009-01-02T17:26:00.007-05:00

My Superintendent and I were talking recently about our holiday break and our families. He was telling me about some relatives of his who have been in the spotlight recently. One was just crowned a pageant winner and will compete in the Miss USA Pageant this year. Her sister is a former teen pageant winner. Her other sister is a model who is engaged to an actor who can be seen on a current teen drama. He ended by telling me that the mother of these girls was in the Miss USA Pageant in 1982.

All of a sudden that voice in my head (that interrupts way too often) started chanting, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree...the apple doesn't fall...." and I was taken back to the first time I ever heard that phrase.

I was sitting in a parent conference with each of the core teachers on my team and Alton's mother. Alton, who was one of the brightest students I ever taught, as well as a talented and creative artist, was prone to unexpected outbursts of anger. One day, Alton asked for a pass to the restroom. I handed it to him and continued to monitor my class that was unusually quiet while taking a test. Alton opened the classroom door, took one step through the door frame and stopped. He turned, and in one fell swoop, ran across the room, pummeled another student in the head, then ran out the door and down the hall.

As we sat that day and discussed these behaviors with his mother, she sat quietly and listened. She finally said, "I've heard enough," stood up, and walked to the door. We sat at that classroom table, looking confused. Finally, she turned at the doorway, looked in our direction, and started screaming at a pitch that sent my hands to cover my ears and some folks in the hallway to the office for help. She resisted our attempts to calm her and screamed about the unfair treatment of her son for about three minutes before the principal came and escorted her out.

At that point our social studies teacher quietly whispered, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." I was a relatively young teacher at the time and hadn't heard that phrase before, but the little voice in my head has repeated it many times since.

One year I had a student named Christal. Christal was the loudest child I ever taught. Her normal speaking voice was decibels higher than anything I had ever heard, and when she came down the hallway to my class, she would swing her arms left to right over her head and yell, "Heeeyyyyy, Hoooooo, Heeeeyyyyy, Hooooo..." all the way to my room. I asked her nicely to be quieter. I modeled speaking quietly. Christal wouldn't budge. So I called her mom. I explained the situation into the phone and then jerked it away from my ear as fast as I could when she began yelling, "YEA, I KNOW CHRISTAL'S LOUD, BUT SHE GOT IT HONEST. HER GRANDMA IS LOUD, TOO!!!"

I politely thanked Christal's mother and hung up the phone. It's all about that apple.

Back in the 80's when I was young and in shape, I owned and operated a dance studio at night. Middle school during the day; dancing at night; I had loads of energy then. My daughter Kelli crawled around that studio as a baby and grew up there, dancing from the time she could walk. Now Kelli is a doctoral student and a professional dancer for the NFL who teaches a couple of classes at a dance studio in her spare time. Today she was telling me about her spring recital. There'll be an 80's theme, and I was thinking of some dances we used to do back when I was teaching - Flashdance, Thriller, anything by Janet Jackson or Madonna...

And I started thinking, wow...Kelli's doing exactly what I was doing at her age...

Then that little voice spoke up, loudly like Christal's mother - THE APPLE DOESN'T FALL TOO FAR FROM THE TREE!!!

Happy New Year, everyone! And have fun with all of your apples. They'll be sitting in your classrooms again next week.

Kelli in 1988

and now...

Forever Young

2008-12-16T21:50:00.005-05:00

On September 12, 2001, I started class by telling my students that thousands of people woke up the day before with no indication that their lives would be very different in a few hours. Many actually lost their lives; others were left to deal with the aftermath, the loss of loved ones and the loss of security that changed so many forever. Such it was with my former student Eric last Thursday morning. He woke up, got ready for school, and started his day like any other this year. But an hour into the school day his world would change. As students jumped out of their cars and off of their buses to start classes that day, a popular football player, Anthony, was losing his life in a car accident a block from the school. Eric heard the news soon after, and unable to contain his grief, turned and put his hand through a window. This particular window was reinforced with a shatter resistant mesh, but it was no match for Eric's anger.

The next day, I received this message from my former student:

"Mrs. Rigsbee,
I don't know what to do..I'm so confused right now...I'm so confused and can't believe that he is gone...I talked to him two days ago, gave him a handshake, and chilled with him."

I thought about how Eric, like those folks on 9/11, had no warning. It seems so cruel to wake up and look at the day ahead and not know that something is going to bring you to your knees. I wondered if some type of warning would allow us time to brace ourselves for the blow, or if the pain would be just as sharp.

After corresponding with Eric, I promised to go to the high school to see him. I had the opportunity to do that today, a few hours before the funeral. The school arranged to transport the students to the church so I had to manuever around the buses lined up for the football team. But once I got in the building, I was able to pick Eric out of the crowd. Even though I taught him when he was twelve years old, and he now is seventeen, he's the same Eric, only a foot taller. We hugged and he showed me his stitches. I gave him my fastest version of "How to deal with grief and anger in ways that won't hurt you physically" as he walked me down the hall to reconnect me with some other former students.

When Steve walked out of his Spanish class, I couldn't believe how big he was! He looked like a professional football player. I said, "What in the world do you eat?!" His answer was simple - "Everything," he said. Still in shock over how tall Steve was, I barely heard Eric say, "There's Tyrell." I thought Little Tyrell - he was so small in seventh grade - surely he's not so big now - only to turn and see that he's taller than I am.

It's a strange feeling. My students will always be seventh graders to me. In my memory the boys are forever goofy and short and have squeaky little voices. These men standing before me today were a shock to behold. But the scenario made me think: although these guys will always be seventh graders in my mind, in reality they are getting older and bigger and taller.

But Anthony will forever be a 17 year old senior in high school. And that's why Eric is mad.

Eric, Tyrell, and Steve

Energy Crisis

2008-12-05T09:33:00.003-05:00

I teach middle school, which on any given day, is equivalent to the game Whack-a-Mole. I used to call it a simmering pot. I would stand in front of agitated seventh graders who at any moment would erupt to boiling. Boiling mad, boiling in love, boiling loud...just boiling. But now I believe it's definitely whack-a-mole. Whack...sit down Bradley, whack...here's a pencil, Darryl...whack...why are you crying, Lauren? Whack, whack, whack.

One day recently I had to attend a meeting held in a high school. Without thinking, I arrived just at dismissal time and placed my hand on the door as the bell rang. I froze, knowing for sure that I was about to be trampled. I turned slightly to return to my car, or perhaps to RUN. And then I saw them. High School students. Not running. Instead I stood in shock as children taller than me sauntered toward me. "Excuse me, Ma'am," one polite gentleman said as he held the door for me to enter. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I pictured what my own school must look like at that exact moment: the moles were most likely running, bumping, hitting, kicking, and screaming their way to the buses. Frantic teachers were in the halls whacking - "Slow downnnnn!" whack "Stop pushing!" whack, whack, whack....

Today I had the opportunity to visit the same high school again. There they were...sauntering seniors. The classroom I observed had varied examples of students slumping in seats. There was no simmering...no eruptions were scheduled. I even commented to the teacher about the lack of urgency in the halls as we watched the students change classes. "Yea," she said, "It's almost like they're walking backwards."

I have to wonder what happens to middle school kids when they get to high school. Where does all that energy go? Do they expend it during athletic practices, chemistry homework, the Prom? Or did the three years they were whacked in middle school break their spirits? Did we middle school teachers beat them down to this puddle of sludge? I left depressed and tired.

My friend, the eighth grade teacher, was complaining today. "These kids are too WILD," he yelled in frustration.

"Get thee to a high school," I encouraged him. "They saunter over there."

But while I was there, I was eager to get back to my goofy little moles. They're so much more fun...

Melee in the Middle

2008-11-24T15:22:00.000-05:00

My dictionary defines "melee" as "confusion, turmoil, or jumble." Sure sounds like the hallways during class change at my school. I love to stand out there and shout like the town crier: "Get in your classrooms and fill your hungry minds with knowledge!" Some of the students look my way briefly and then dismiss me with a slight jerk of the head: "Oh, it's just Mrs. Rigsbee." And off they go.

I've been reading with interest Beginning in the Middle: Critical Steps in Secondary School Reform, a report released by the National Association of State Boards of Education (NASBE) last month. NASBE acknowledges that the focus in the past several years has been on America's high schools. Basically, the report tells us what we already know - that high school graduation requirements have become more rigorous, curriculum standards require higher levels of thinking, and students are being pushed harder to meet 21st Century global expectations. Because the bar has been raised in the high schools, students must leave middle school better prepared to perform. But are they?

Interestingly, I had a conversation on this subject today with a second year teacher. Jenny is one of the best new teachers I've ever worked with. Her classroom runs like a perfectly timed machine; all procedures and expectations are clear and in place. She delivers instruction based on our state's Standard Course of Study and collaborates in a Professional Learning Community in order to plan engaging lessons and to design formative assessments that drive her instruction. She's so good that she was named chair of her grade level in her second year of teaching. But today she told me that she doesn't think the "learning" is happening. While she was talking, my mind started rewinding, as it's prone to do, and I shared with her some musings of my past. I remember teaching seventh graders in the early 90's and thinking, too, that the "learning wasn't happening." It seemed that I was using every research-based strategy I knew and a week after my instruction, my students didn't remember a thing I had taught them.

At that time I wondered if, developmentally, they were unable to retain the information I was sharing with them. There were days when I thought that I was there for one reason - to prepare my students for high school. And that preparation, to me, went well beyond mastering standards. I felt that I also must teach my students organizational and study skills as well as social skills. I knew that I was spending the majority of my time helping kids understand how to get along with each other and how to bring a pencil to class. Although these behaviors were not listed in our standards, the "learning" couldn't happen without them. But since my early years in teaching, I have learned that I also must teach my students to think critically, to question everything, and to take risks as learners, even as early as middle school.

So what does NASBE say? Most of the report's recommendations are related to what school districts and states need to do in reference to school configuration and transition programs for students entering high school. However, as far as what we as teachers can do that will impact our middle school students, NASBE makes it very clear: classrooms must be engaging. According to Jack Berckemeyer of the National Middle School Association, "You cannot forget the art of teaching. The human element is important in that kids have to be important as people first. Adolescents will engage when they know the teacher cares about them and can relate to them."

The recommendations given by the panel for state leaders include:

-Review the current status of early secondary education.
-Require all teachers to receive training in the psycho-social development of students.
-Consider new transition models such as flexible scheduling, virtual schools, vertical teaming, and peer connections in orientations.
-Begin early interventions in the sixth grade.

My recommendations for student engagement include:

-Establish an atmosphere of family within the classroom.

(My students know I LOVE them and that I expect them to treat each other with respect even if they don't consider themselves friends.)

-Integrate humor into every lesson.

(If your mind wanders in my classroom, you will get smacked - gently - with the Focus Flower or zapped by the Focus Fairy's wand. And the Focus Fairy - the teacher - may put on any number of layers of Focus Fairy clothing, including wings, a veil, and a boa.)

-Celebrate EVERY day!

(Some days celebrating means eating. Other days it means the teacher is doing cheerleader kicks when students get the answers right.)

-Make the classroom a place where students want to be.

(There is an atmosphere of acceptance in my class. And the students know that I'm happy to be there with them every day. They cannot, no matter how hard they try, see me in a nasty mood. Also, I spend my days in there, too, so the actual layout and decoration of the room is pleasant and has an "I'm at home" feel - including comfy chairs and beanbags, curtains, and attractive wall displays of student work.)

The report released by NASBE provides recommendations for school districts and states that could impact the way middle schools operate across the country. Meanwhile, those of us in those middle school classrooms need to ensure that we are heeding Mr. Berckemeyer's advice and relating to our kids. With that foundation in place, we'll be on our way to the "learning happening."

Driving Mrs. Rigsbee

2008-11-17T13:03:00.005-05:00

One of the joys of being the Teacher of the Year for the state of North Carolina is that I get to travel all over the place, making presentations, talking to educators, attending meetings, and representing teachers as an ambassador for education. Because of this amazing honor, I have a "state car" to drive from hither to yon, and it's a cute little Toyota Prius that is saving the state some gas money because it's so efficient. It was new when I picked it up, and it now has over 8,000 miles on it. That's about 2,000 miles per month so far. Those miles don't include any personal trips, which I don't make in the state car, even to the grocery store or bank. Those are all "Teacher of the Year" miles.

I knew ahead of time that it would be part of the job requirement to travel the state. I continue to be very excited about that. But it does look a little different than I imagined. First, I envisioned that my elderly Mama would accompany me on some trips. She's just sitting at home by herself so why couldn't she ride with me to the mountains, and while we're there, maybe we could mosey on in to a little craft shop, do a little browsing. Well, what I didn't anticipate is that my schedule is so packed that I literally am running from one event to the next, and shopping hasn't even been a gleam in my eye.

One thing I started out doing is taking the smaller back roads occasionally so that I could really see and enjoy my state. I soon noticed that I was chugging right along, glancing out the window, saying, "Oh, there's a horse. Pretty horse. Gotta go..." and I'd keep right on driving in order to get to my next destination in time.

I love my little car and have spent a good deal of time in it, but there was one traumatic situation. Once I was on the road to a school, and I saw two school buses coming toward me. I thought, "Awwww...school buses...I love school buses, I love schools, I love..." My next thought was "Why is that car in front of me swerving?" And then I saw it - a deer. No, not a prancing and beautiful trying-to-get-across-the-road deer, but a projectile deer. This animal had been hit by the bus and had been thrown at me. I hit it. But I don't know where or how. I don't know if I ran over it, or if it hit the side of my car. My eyes were closed. I slammed on brakes at precisely the same time I slammed my eyes shut. I heard "bump-bump-bump-bump" but to this day have no idea what happened. The buses stopped. Other cars stopped. The deputy said he didn't see any damage to my car. Just some fur. Great.

If you don't know me, you don't know that I'm the one who stops any time I see deer, even ones on the roadside. I stop, roll down my window, and yell, "Go away, little deer. Run in the woods! Be safe! Be safe!" That day I didn't have a chance (and neither did the deer.)

The most traumatic experience happened last week, though. I had a five hour drive through the rain to get from point A to point B. I was hungry and tired, having spoken to 350 people at lunchtime. My end destination, where I would speak to principals the next day, happened to be at the beach where peaceful ocean waters were waiting. But getting there was difficult. Upon leaving the biggest city in the state, I encountered red lights every 500 yards. There was an incessant stop-and-go that provoked me to the point of feeling less than pleasant toward the Department of Transportation. I finally broke free of that and found myself on a beautiful four lane highway with nary a car on it (except mine.) I continued to puttputtputt right along, probably at about 65 mph when I noticed a sign saying "Speed Limit 45."

I slowed down as any good driver would do. However, I was already in trouble and didn't even know it. You see my car has a nice 1-800 number on the back. I say the numbers are a good five inches tall, but my husband says they're only two. (I've told him a million times that I don't exaggerate.) Anyway, the next day I received a call and here's what I heard: "A citizen has filed a complaint against you." I was HORRIFIED! I really was. But all I could think about was the episode of The Andy Griffith Show where someone (maybe Barney) is yelling, "Citizen's Arrest! Citizen's Arrest!" I thought it must be some mistake, but when the caller named the city, I felt like the Von Trapp family trying to dodge those huge spotlights as I backed up to a concrete wall. Because, yes, I was there at the time indicated, and just maybe I was going a little fast. And, oh my gosh, I'm so sorry...I know I represent the teachers of North Carolina and the state in general, and I would never break a law.

Needless to say, after my presentation to the principals, I drove home like a Driver's Ed student - hands on 10 and 2, checking the mirror every three seconds, and setting the cruise control for five miles below the speed limit.

Now... there's really no time to stop and pet the horses. Which is fine with me...as long as they stay out of the road and away from school buses.

What Our Students Need to Know

2008-11-05T19:01:00.004-05:00

There are some folks who don't understand the significance of our country electing its first Black President. But it's a conversation that should be happening in classrooms all over America. Regardless of party affiliation, political opinion, or the color of our states on that big interactive map (my state is one of three that hasn't been designated red or blue yet), we should recognize and explain to children the reasons why this election, and the outcome, is so important.

Maybe you don't understand if you didn't grow up in the South in the 60's. But I did. And not only do I understand it, I feel it. I attended an all white elementary school until forced desegregation was mandated in 1969. But my neighborhood was an inner city mixture of Black and White. So all through my elementary years, I got on my bus and rode to a White school while my Black neighbors got on their buses and rode in the other direction. There was no discussion of whether or not it was "fair." It's just the way it was.

As a seventh grader, I attended school with Black students for the first time. Three girls approached me in the bathroom on the first day of school and asked me how it felt to be White. I told them I'd never been anything else so I wasn't sure how to answer that question. One day a White boy stood in the front of my school bus, just as it stopped to let him off. He sang a few lines of "Dixie" and jumped out the door. I watched ten Black boys chase after him down the street. As alarming as that incident was, I think I was the most nervous about the fact that we had police escorts to and from schools for awhile. These motorcades began because of rock-throwing...at the school buses. The folks throwing the rocks? Adults in protest of desegregation. They lined the streets from my neighborhood to my school.

I grew up in a city rich in African American history. During the 1930's, Durham, North Carolina quickly developed a vibrant Black community, the center of which was an area known as Hayti (pronounced HAY-tie), just south of the center of town, where some of the most prominent and successful Black-owned businesses in the country during the early 20th century were established. These businesses — the best known of which are North Carolina Mutual Insurance Company and Mechanics & Farmers' Bank — were centered on Parrish Street, which would come to be known as "Black Wall Street." Durham is proud to be the home of North Carolina Central University, a prominent historically Black university.

But regardless of the history of the city, we still felt the same pains of racism that other Southern towns felt. And although I've never seen "Whites Only" restaurants or water fountains in my lifetime, I have only to think of the sound of those rocks hitting my school bus, and I know those inequities took place.

So now we have a Black President. And when I stand in front of my students, especially my African American ones, I can say, "You can be anything you want to be. You can even be President" and know that it's true. As Maya Angelou said today, "My country has grown up, and we have decided not to be defined by ignorance."

And others across the world are taking notice, too. An Italian woman wrote to ABC news: "Your country has taught us all that anything is possible. Welcome back, American Dream!"

And to those who didn't vote for our next President, he himself sent out a special message today: "I hear your voices. I need your help. I will be your President, too."

It is time that all Americans function in the spirit of unity. We must put down our rocks and work together to make this country great.