Stronger Together 2

Lessons Learned…

Collaboration 2

How does it look to hug a city? How should it look? It seems somehow that despair is derived from a place of painful loss, and from this perspective, our city has suffered tremendous economic hardship in the loss of jobs due to the loss of large anchor corporations in fairly recent years. In our economic loss, we have suffered a severe identity crisis and a crushing blow to our historically defining independent spirit. Floundering in this place of loss, where violence easily erupts, we have been swept to our corners in fear. A hug. In brainstorming “a hug” for this city, we determined it could resemble an identity reaffirmation through a retelling of our city’s story, our shared story, and a reminder of the strong common ground upon which we all stand right now. Together. United.  A  shared story depicting our strong, proud past for all to hear, remember and claim would be the starting place around which we would invite neighbors to bring their creativities, ideas, and passions to help build our large city-wide celebratory hug. We would research and write an original musical about our city’s story, rehearse it with our students, and then engage many others in the community to lend their gifts to strengthen our hug. We had to start somewhere and we determined to start here.  To be continued…

Stronger Together...

Lessons Learned…

Collaboration 1

The unflattering and very disheartening distinction by Forbes Magazine as being among the top contenders for Most Violent City In The US was the topic of discussion over lunch at an outside café with a good friend.  We, just a couple of ordinary teachers from a nearby elementary school, talked passionately about this hurting city which was the home to much excellence and a home we loved. As with all frustrating luncheon topics on the discussion docket, denial is an expected and frequent response, as is anger, and general complaining, but not one of these responses “does anything”  other than drive up blood pressure and perpetuate negativism. Not good enough. We determined right then to “do something” to bring a lift, a smile, a hug to this, our hometown which was tangled in a dark despair not unknown to countless hometowns these days. We determined right then to gather a local team of optimists, believers, neighbors and other such enthusiastic, collaborating, hometown helpers who would willingly, cheerfully work alongside us to build bridges of hope and trust into the corners of this beloved, beleaguered community. We determined right then that any effort brought forth in good faith to serve our neighbors was worth the try.  We determined that together we could be stronger, together we could be better, and that together we could begin to chip away at the paralyzing, isolating fear that dwells in the wake of violence.  Collaboration held a key. To be continued…

Too Much Testing?

Lessons Learned…

Numbers Alone No Nourishment Provide

In education today, as well as in most other areas, it all comes down to this; numbers. Scores. Metrics. Performance Data. These numbers drive funding, define success, delineate projections, and determine accountability for students, teachers, school districts, and states. As numbers are crunched, compared, and evaluated on flow charts and bar graphs presented in large beige-colored conference rooms to suit-clad metrics philosophers, perhaps it is easy to forget that these numbers represent children filled with dreams and wonder, anxious to explore the world and imagine and discover answers to challenging questions. States, districts, teachers, and students are staggering under the inscrutable weight of cold, hard continuous metric achievement, which unquestionably demands the classroom focus to be statistical. The highly-pressured demands of this frequently result in unethical choices made in survival-type desperation. Unfortunately, although true learning cannot be quantified as such nor contained in neat statistical, numerical boxes, it seems it has become reduced to this very thing. Teaching to the test is not learning. Teaching to the test inspires no imaginative and possibility-filled divergent thinking, clever invention, or mind wandering creativity. Teaching to the test opens no new windows of discovery, but rather denotes a more “shoveling in of information” style of fact dissemination. As there must be some sort of balance in all things in life, there appears to be no balance in this now. The metrics pendulum has swung to an unhealthy, inappropriate extreme with respect to educating children and is in dire need of honest, immediate scrutiny and re-prioritization if we are to truly nurture and nourish tomorrow’s hope.

New School Year, New Start...

Lessons Learned…

Can I Change?

Within the first few days of school one particular year, a young student very innocently, very sincerely posed undoubtedly the most compelling question of all when he asked, “Can I change?”  Wondering if he was seeking permission or questioning possibility, the teacher probed, “What do you mean?”  The student, who carried, along with his new backpack, a red-flag reputation in teacher-talk, proceeded to spill his heart through the story he shared about his school experience so far. Not a good listener. A little disrespectful.  Frequently yelled at. In the lowest groups. Probably a trouble-maker.  Never invited to a birthday party. School was stupid. Mom told him he needed to change, and he needed to change now, because things were not going to ever get better if he didn’t.  Can I change? Do I have the strength and courage necessary to turn this behavior boat around?  Even if I can, can others accept this new me and change their expectations and opinions of me? If their perceptions are cast in stone and unchangeable, why should I even try to be different than the bad boy they expect? This was a tremendous amount of significant contemplating for a young mind to be processing during those early days in a school  year when most were struggling to line up in the proper order  and to recall their locker numbers. The teacher, realizing that questions of this sort which come right from the deepest chambers of a student’s heart, felt overwhelmingly humbled to be entrusted with this huge amount of vulnerability.  The student’s  eyes were wide, trusting, and demanding. This answer was to be as important as the question in terms of behavioral trajectory.  With focused eye-contact , tender vocal tone, and unmistakable belief, the teacher  promised that precious little boy that each year was a new year, that each day was a new day, and each one was a new opportunity to begin again with a clean slate. We all make mistakes and bad choices for which we are not proud, but apologies, grace and forgiveness are powerfully strong.  It’s never too late to turn around. It’s never too late to make a new and better choice.  Now is the time. Start now. This is how we learn, and this is how we grow. “Yes, you can change,” said the teacher.  “This is going to be a good year,” smiled the boy. And it was.

Good Neighbors Come Running...

Lessons Learned…

At The Horse Show

Buttons. I was to ride Buttons during the annual horse show held at the neighbor’s farm and riding corral. Buttons was a biter and a bit prone to unpredictable behavior, but only when she turned her ears back. As long as she kept her ears in place, I would only be a little nervous about her, us and the entire extravaganza.  We were novice riders and had just finished our first season of riding lessons. We were also city-slicker kids trying our best to learn how to be country kids, and this horse show was quite the event of the season drawing participants and spectators from a wide range of neighboring farms.  Hair in braids, flannel shirts, jeans, and sturdy boots, were the prescribed costume, and from that aspect, we were fully ready for the show to begin. Any participants without cowboy hats were supplied with one to wear in the show thus completing the appropriate look.  We put on our hats wishing we had a mirror, but we knew that the look was right, and we were just thrilled to be a part of the excitement.  The spectators lined the corral fence and amongst them were our parents.  The judges took their places. The announcer bullhorned a crackly welcome, stirred up the crowd, then commenced the show with the Pledge of Allegiance. Event after event. Rider after rider. Individuals and groups entered the ring demonstrating fine skills and command over these very powerful animals. When our names were called, Buttons and I entered the ring with the rest of our group of beginner contestants.  Please walk your horses.  Perfect. Please trot your horses. Perfect. Please cantor your horses.  Buttons ears went back and my blood ran cold. She took off running like there was no tomorrow, passing every horse on the inside, and gaining steam.  My thoughts were a flurry during those tenuous moments where speed and fear and recalling the need for showmanship collided.  Smile. Our instructor impressed upon us that to smile when passing by the judges demonstrated poise and confidence and control of the situation.  Although I clearly had none of those, I managed to paste on a smile which surely was nothing more than a blur as Buttons and I ran for the roses.  My hat flew off and may well have been trampled, but I stayed on, thankfully. Several neighbors came running into the ring with the instructor at that point and managed to catch Buttons just as she was eyeing the fence and the vast field beyond.  Calm was restored. Hat was recovered.  Lesson learned, when trouble strikes good neighbors come running.  Additional lesson learned, keep smiling.  What a show!

No Bullies Allowed...

Lessons Learned…

The Beaded Necklace

I was hired to fill a long-term substitute teaching position in a fourth grade classroom just months after my December college graduation.  Young, eager, optimistic, all appropriate and helpful attributes for a new incoming sub, nicely complimented my satchel stuffed with freshly acquired scholarly educational theories, philosophies, and cutting edge fail-safe strategies designed and promised to reach all and teach all. With squared-shoulder confidence and change-the-world spirit, I entered that classroom and encountered reality. Reality always somehow seems to smack of a bit of disappointment.  People can frequently behave so disappointingly human regardless of their ages. Human nature depicts endless layers of self and emanating from this myopic vantage point can be a fairly insidious disregard for others.  Somewhere between taking lunch count that first day and starting our new novel, the leaning-toward-the-toxic classroom cliques magically appeared with great clarity and unapologetically. This group. That group. The power group. The Loner. Just one loner.  She steered clear of the fray, kept her eyes down, and tried to fly under the radar. They “let” her do so to a certain extent, that is to say, after “they” snipped and cut enough to make sure she knew that her radar flying was by their permission. Power. The lust for power starts young, but where exactly does it originate? I sincerely want to know that.  It’s poison, of that I am certain. To the oblivious or insecure teacher, it will run rampant and dominate your classroom in extremely covert, though devastating ways. It is the root of bullying. And bullying is at the root of a pain that can be so excruciating, so consuming, so silent that it completely debilitates in its rendering of powerlessness. Who bestows this power? Who perpetuates it? Do we all? I was just a young long-term sub walking into a classroom with its established and accepted climate, but my eyes, as those of one who understood the wrath of a bully, remained fixed upon the loner.  I would help her in quiet, unassuming ways. An encouraging word in passing.  An affirming smile.  A “random” opportunity to teacher-assist on an errand to the office.  An extra superlative word written on a corrected assignment. Continual, covert building up day after day after day after day.  The bullies, the exclusive cliques, the power seekers were not given voice other than to participate according to my directions. We were one class. We would learn to care for each other and recognize that each one brings gifts and stories that are unique and worthy of being celebrated. Not one more than another, but each one. On  my last day with the fourth graders, the loner who no longer was one brought me a gift that she, her mother, and grandmother had made.  It was a stunningly beautiful beaded necklace strung in the Native American tradition of their family and their tribe. She simply said, “Thank you for noticing me.”  Her simple message did more to inform my teaching than all of the stuffing in my satchel.

Fair Expectations?

Lessons Learned…

The Black Eye

Kids are resilient; everyone says that. They are resilient to the extent that their minds and hearts are malleable, they are willingly vulnerable and trusting until they learn otherwise, and they have little to no choice concerning their circumstances. They are, at their young age, along for the ride of life and fully at the mercy of the scruples, opinions, perspectives, insecurities, and personalities of those to whom they’ve been entrusted. Raising kids is such an incredibly humongous and significant responsibility with unbelievably long-range rippling ramifications frequently accepted with absolutely flippant and casual consideration. Kids are resilient becomes the fallback excuse for complete irresponsibility, and that is simply not good enough for these treasures known as kids who bring unique gifts to this world that no one has ever seen yet.  Although it may not clearly show, these little ones carry the burden of our incompetence, our irresponsibility, our immaturity, and all of the rest of our unresolved adolescence, and even though covered under the guise of resilience, occasionally the burden shows up unexpectedly.  He was just six young years old, but he had been to a war zone far too many times. He smiled and laughed and played, studied and learned alongside his classmates, but it was unmistakably evident that a rage was simmering just below the surface. With extra patience, grace, and love an intuitive teacher would serve and reach out to a child such as this one every day, every day, every day. The burning desire, the motivating hope to make a difference especially in this burdened life would be a daily over-riding mission to an intuitive teacher.  Could the rage silently consuming him and confusing him be assuaged with generous and regular doses of all things good? I hoped so.  Kneeling down one morning to help him with his backpack, I noticed he was visibly agitated. You okay? No. No. No. I am not okay. Nothing is okay. Everything is bad. Everything. Everything. Everything! The final everything was shouted as he wound up and punched me in the eye and then melted into a sobbing, remorseful puddle of tears and shame and frustration and anger and fear. I hugged him until the sobbing quieted. The class was silent and stone still, yet with deer-in-the-headlight eyes, their deep concern begged to know why. Sometimes life is just very hard and it makes your heart really hurt. That’s why we need each other.  Over the next days and weeks we gently unwrapped the paining issues and engaged the strong, necessary support to help bring healing and peace to that precious little six year old.  Children are children and their resiliency is that of a child and should never be overestimated to accommodate errors of the adults in their world.