When does one decide that it is acceptable dismantle a classroom. The jury is still out on this one. Is it acceptable to push up the date for destruction when there are mitigating factors, like the closing of one's school? I for one would like to think it changes nothing. Yep I'm that super optimist that believes that children should get the "full experience" up until the very last minute. Of course I would also be that teacher that would be packing until the next millennium too, right? It's certainly a duplicitous dilemma!
For a moment now, let's examine what it really means to pack up and prepare a school for its destruction. It means taking all of your curriculum (Teachers Edition books and what not for the lay people) inventorying it and then giving it to someone else to inventory. It means prompting students to make their way through a labyrinth of grade signs and masking tape pathways to find the correct place to put their text books. It also means figuring out how to pack your vomitroucious collection of the dreaded "things and stuff". You see what many people don't know is that these professional moving companies have tools of the trade. So they tell you, if it is going to spill put it into one of our idiot proof boxes. Idiot proof boxes that are so small that many things will be too tall to fit inside. your next choice? The blessed Gondola. Now when hearing about this one, most would think that the teacher gods have created a blessed tool to move you to and fro between your room and the packing room. Although I must admit, I can crawl onto one of those myself I have yet to find a student I would trust to transport me. Really, they are random rolling shelves with a pretty name. Apparently the grand finale of tools and apparatuses will come in the next few days so keep tuned for details!
The best part is that districts really do work hard to plan ahead. Yes, they want all of your "things and stuff" to end up in the correct place. So, they would greatly appreciate it if you affixed a handy dandy colored label onto all of your items, the boxes, gondolas, etc. Theses puppies are even color coded for those visual learners! Unfortunately they are also meant to have the schools that you and your colleagues will be assigned. Hmmmm.....if only they knew where that was. Yes so there in lies another issue. Do you pack and keep all of these items (Gondola and all) in your classroom until the bloody color-me-happy labels arrive? Or do you wait for fear the one thrill seeker in your class will use the Gondola as a mode of transportation down the hall in a lovely game of Bowling for First Graders? Hmmmm decisions, decisions. Yes this year will not end in the normal craziness, its a whole new kind of crazy for those blessed teachers at the closing school.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
STAR light STAR bright....I wish they may, I wish they might...get most of the answers right
Oh yes! The worst two weeks of every year, STAR testing. For any of you who may not know, this is California's policy makers finding a way to stress out even the youngest of students. It's our version of standardized testing. Now I understand the need for it. Really, I do. It's important to be able to tell the world "see they are learning". Or wait, it's important to tell the world "see we are holding those uneducated educators accountable". Hmmm....now I'm not really sure why we have these lovely little tests...oh that's right, to show that students are learning the state standards.
When I first taught, I worked with older children. They were old enough for me to say "Rock it out! Do your best! If you mess up, then hey it's only a snapshot. You are more than a number." For some strange reason it didn't occur to me that in moving to teach the little people, that my standard response would not work. Little people are naturally intimidated by assessments. They have not yet perfected the "F is for fantastic" mantra and most still want to do well, generally speaking. I was unprepared as we sat down to take our practice tests. I read the directions, they began, and all was well. Then it happened....sniffles. First here, then there, then...like a plague...EVERYWHERE! What is going on here? Is this some sort of reaction to the secret ninga dust bunnies that lurk in our room? No, that can't be it. They could not all possibly be fighting bats in their caves, right? No the booger bandit could not be waiting to emerge. Then it became worse, there was sniffling, and whimpering! I looked around the room in total shock. I was staring at some sort of natural disaster and I was frozen. What is wrong with them? So quickly and quietly I made my way around the room to assess. Were they holding their stomachs? Sitting in a puddle of the dreaded pee pee? No and no. They were crying. Most of them were crying. Now why pray tell were these little people crying? They were crying because they were afraid. The problem was, I had no idea why they were afraid. Were they fearful that "someone" would know that they did not do their best? Or that they guessed on a question here or there? No. As a later, much needed, discussion would reveal, they were far more mature than I ever realized. They were afraid of failure. The amazing part was that, they knew they would never see this test again, that it was a one shot deal and yet they were still afraid. As the conversation progressed, I sat listening and transformed into the student as they began to teach me about their learned test anxiety.
That conversation was a major turning point for me. To hear eight and nine year-olds clearly articulate the redundant feel of defeat that they encountered as they progressed through the test, was an awakening. Of course they were afraid, heck they didn't even understand half the questions on the test. Far be it from me to ask them to actually answer these dreaded little demonic inquiries. It must be scary to be in their position. At that age most of them are still deeply invested in pleasing adults and the joy of learning. So to have your entire classroom transform into a sterile environment, and your usually goofy animated teacher turn into a robot spitting out directions must be a real shocker! So I decided from that point on, I was going to set it up to change as little as possible. That's right folks, there will be no resources on my walls (because then we don't have to cover them up). We have no silly little ankle-biter alphabets, no never ending number line, and certainly none of those "If you don't know how to think, here's how" posters. I changed everything! I reformatted all of my assessments so that the testing conditions would be the same, created "assessment rituals" that would be used throughout the year, and encouraged them to become excited about the opportunity to "show off their awesomeness".
OMG was that a boatload of work! Surprisingly enough I had to answer about a zillion questions about my new found decorating practices. To a certain extent I'm quite sure that I offended a rather fossil-minded professional at my school when I refused to make use of sound cards. The idea that I would not give them a resource was apparently mind-boggling! The thing was, in my mind I was giving them a resource. I was forcing them to think for themselves, and darn it if there was a moment when they needed to look up the spelling of a word or sound, then they could find that information in the reference section of our classroom.
It's been four years now and I have to say that the majority of the test anxiety has completely disappeared. It's still the most fantastically boring experience of the year for all parties involved, but we survive without the tears. That's enough to make me try to walk the coals with them every time.
When I first taught, I worked with older children. They were old enough for me to say "Rock it out! Do your best! If you mess up, then hey it's only a snapshot. You are more than a number." For some strange reason it didn't occur to me that in moving to teach the little people, that my standard response would not work. Little people are naturally intimidated by assessments. They have not yet perfected the "F is for fantastic" mantra and most still want to do well, generally speaking. I was unprepared as we sat down to take our practice tests. I read the directions, they began, and all was well. Then it happened....sniffles. First here, then there, then...like a plague...EVERYWHERE! What is going on here? Is this some sort of reaction to the secret ninga dust bunnies that lurk in our room? No, that can't be it. They could not all possibly be fighting bats in their caves, right? No the booger bandit could not be waiting to emerge. Then it became worse, there was sniffling, and whimpering! I looked around the room in total shock. I was staring at some sort of natural disaster and I was frozen. What is wrong with them? So quickly and quietly I made my way around the room to assess. Were they holding their stomachs? Sitting in a puddle of the dreaded pee pee? No and no. They were crying. Most of them were crying. Now why pray tell were these little people crying? They were crying because they were afraid. The problem was, I had no idea why they were afraid. Were they fearful that "someone" would know that they did not do their best? Or that they guessed on a question here or there? No. As a later, much needed, discussion would reveal, they were far more mature than I ever realized. They were afraid of failure. The amazing part was that, they knew they would never see this test again, that it was a one shot deal and yet they were still afraid. As the conversation progressed, I sat listening and transformed into the student as they began to teach me about their learned test anxiety.
That conversation was a major turning point for me. To hear eight and nine year-olds clearly articulate the redundant feel of defeat that they encountered as they progressed through the test, was an awakening. Of course they were afraid, heck they didn't even understand half the questions on the test. Far be it from me to ask them to actually answer these dreaded little demonic inquiries. It must be scary to be in their position. At that age most of them are still deeply invested in pleasing adults and the joy of learning. So to have your entire classroom transform into a sterile environment, and your usually goofy animated teacher turn into a robot spitting out directions must be a real shocker! So I decided from that point on, I was going to set it up to change as little as possible. That's right folks, there will be no resources on my walls (because then we don't have to cover them up). We have no silly little ankle-biter alphabets, no never ending number line, and certainly none of those "If you don't know how to think, here's how" posters. I changed everything! I reformatted all of my assessments so that the testing conditions would be the same, created "assessment rituals" that would be used throughout the year, and encouraged them to become excited about the opportunity to "show off their awesomeness".
OMG was that a boatload of work! Surprisingly enough I had to answer about a zillion questions about my new found decorating practices. To a certain extent I'm quite sure that I offended a rather fossil-minded professional at my school when I refused to make use of sound cards. The idea that I would not give them a resource was apparently mind-boggling! The thing was, in my mind I was giving them a resource. I was forcing them to think for themselves, and darn it if there was a moment when they needed to look up the spelling of a word or sound, then they could find that information in the reference section of our classroom.
It's been four years now and I have to say that the majority of the test anxiety has completely disappeared. It's still the most fantastically boring experience of the year for all parties involved, but we survive without the tears. That's enough to make me try to walk the coals with them every time.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Orchids and Dandelions
I read an article recently that used the metaphor of flowers to describe resiliency in children. Dandelion children are those children that thrive no matter the circumstances. They could have every conceivable card stacked against them, yet they persevere. They push on and succeed. They "make it". Then we have the orchid children. These are our delicate flowers. They actually have the potential to thrive; it's possible. The circumstances must always be right for them. They must be in the right environment, with the right families in the right school, with the right teacher, etc. If all of those elements are a good fit they will not just thrive, but blossom with unspeakable beauty.
This whole analogy got me thinking, of course about education. If a child is a plant, well then a district must be the greenhouse. It is the framework, the foundation, the housing. What kind of greenhouse do we have? How is it set up? What kinds of plants does it best cultivate? Certainly not orchids, that's for sure. Oh we may have raised some beautiful orchids, but that is clearly not a testament to the greenhouse, but rather some very focused care-takers, gardeners. They are an amazing breed, the gardener whose job is more of a passion rather than a means of income. They wake early to be there to measure the sun, and only leave when their job is complete. They study the plants, measure their progress and adjust accordingly. They are vigilant in their quest for growth. They will not rest until every plant has had an opportunity to succeed. They know when to take a plant out of the greenhouse, let it bask in the sun. They know when to adjust the elements. Most importantly, they talk to their plants; they care for them. If there is something they do not know, they simply learn it. This is their craft, their love. Of course there are those gardeners that simply arrive on time, water, feed, maybe weed, and leave. If they happen to raise a successful orchid, then its luck of the draw.They do not go above, nor beyond, and they follow their job description to the letter.
Its actually comical that these higher level gardeners continue to show up and religiously perfect their craft. Comical, because they are also the very ones who bear the weight of the greenhouse. When a fungal infection occurs, no one looks at the greenhouse. They don't look for new methods of ventilation, or any other way to solve the problem. They simply blame the gardeners. The gardeners weren't attentive enough, they didn't give all plants a uniform feeding schedule. or they didn't follow instructions with complete fidelity. Maybe the gardeners have not done enough additional reading on the subject, maybe they do not work hard enough. People make grandiose commitments to evaluate the substandard gardeners, to assess their knowledge. Why don't people ever look at the greenhouse? More often than not their windows are rusted shut, maybe they don't even have a ventilation system. Without that all living things suffocate. If a gardener used a pesticide, it could not only kill the gardener but all of the other plants too. The air becomes dank, stagnant with chemicals. Yet no one looks for a way to bring in air. I mean who needs air right? Its amazing really. Amazing how easy it is to miss the most obvious answer.
Yes some plants survive in this rigid, restrictive environment. That's all they do. They survive. Yet somehow the educational community is proud of that. What would happen if we changed our perspective completely? What would happen if we judged our system not on the children that survive and succeed, but the ones that do not? How many of our schools or districts would fall short? How many would struggle to meet the changing needs of the orchids? How many would successfully cultivate orchids? I for one, am certain that were the criteria by which we evaluated schools, one of the best orchid schools in Ventura county would not be closing.
On a coincidental side note: I've been raising orchids in my kitchen window for almost a decade. I know I've been neglecting them, because life has been crazy. I had not idea how bad it was, only three are still alive.:(
This whole analogy got me thinking, of course about education. If a child is a plant, well then a district must be the greenhouse. It is the framework, the foundation, the housing. What kind of greenhouse do we have? How is it set up? What kinds of plants does it best cultivate? Certainly not orchids, that's for sure. Oh we may have raised some beautiful orchids, but that is clearly not a testament to the greenhouse, but rather some very focused care-takers, gardeners. They are an amazing breed, the gardener whose job is more of a passion rather than a means of income. They wake early to be there to measure the sun, and only leave when their job is complete. They study the plants, measure their progress and adjust accordingly. They are vigilant in their quest for growth. They will not rest until every plant has had an opportunity to succeed. They know when to take a plant out of the greenhouse, let it bask in the sun. They know when to adjust the elements. Most importantly, they talk to their plants; they care for them. If there is something they do not know, they simply learn it. This is their craft, their love. Of course there are those gardeners that simply arrive on time, water, feed, maybe weed, and leave. If they happen to raise a successful orchid, then its luck of the draw.They do not go above, nor beyond, and they follow their job description to the letter.
Its actually comical that these higher level gardeners continue to show up and religiously perfect their craft. Comical, because they are also the very ones who bear the weight of the greenhouse. When a fungal infection occurs, no one looks at the greenhouse. They don't look for new methods of ventilation, or any other way to solve the problem. They simply blame the gardeners. The gardeners weren't attentive enough, they didn't give all plants a uniform feeding schedule. or they didn't follow instructions with complete fidelity. Maybe the gardeners have not done enough additional reading on the subject, maybe they do not work hard enough. People make grandiose commitments to evaluate the substandard gardeners, to assess their knowledge. Why don't people ever look at the greenhouse? More often than not their windows are rusted shut, maybe they don't even have a ventilation system. Without that all living things suffocate. If a gardener used a pesticide, it could not only kill the gardener but all of the other plants too. The air becomes dank, stagnant with chemicals. Yet no one looks for a way to bring in air. I mean who needs air right? Its amazing really. Amazing how easy it is to miss the most obvious answer.
Yes some plants survive in this rigid, restrictive environment. That's all they do. They survive. Yet somehow the educational community is proud of that. What would happen if we changed our perspective completely? What would happen if we judged our system not on the children that survive and succeed, but the ones that do not? How many of our schools or districts would fall short? How many would struggle to meet the changing needs of the orchids? How many would successfully cultivate orchids? I for one, am certain that were the criteria by which we evaluated schools, one of the best orchid schools in Ventura county would not be closing.
On a coincidental side note: I've been raising orchids in my kitchen window for almost a decade. I know I've been neglecting them, because life has been crazy. I had not idea how bad it was, only three are still alive.:(
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