The Matter of Beliefs

Charlie was never a stellar student, so I'm not kidding myself even as I get angry. I know he didn't always do his work, and I know that he would smile and nod in acquiescence and then walk about and do nothing.

To his teachers he was lazy, not motivated, and "if only…"

His early teen years weren't good ones -- school hadn't been a strong suit, and he was having too  much fun with kids who were at the edge of school. Then came the night his mom rushed his dad to the hospital. A few days later after the swelling of his dad's brain had returned closer to normal, his dad underwent the knife. For most of that week  Charlie's days were spent in the hospital, waiting for the diagnosis.

Brain cancer.

Life expectancy -- not known but not good.

And when he returned to school, his science teacher said no to turning his work in late.

You've got to be more responsible, she told him.

Lazy is what she believed.

He needs to learn a lesson about responsibility, she believed.

And then there's Marie.

Her mom was Japanese-American, her dad Mexican-American. Through her first few years of school, she carried her dad's last name. After her parent's divorce, she carried her mom's last name. While Mexican-American, her teachers  shook their heads in dismay at her struggles with math, but when she became Japanese-American, her teacher insisted that she visit him after school for tutoring.

Your people are good at math, and we must catch you up, he told her.

Asians are great at math but those from the southern hemisphere aren't, he believed.

Beliefs that teachers hold serve as roadmaps, as beacons of light, guiding a teacher's interpretation of events and subsequent  actions . Those beliefs determine the words that come out of our mouths and the instructional moves that we make. And the potential collateral damage: the Charlies of the world and the Latino Maries.

We owe it to our kids -all of our kids --  to take stock of our beliefs, to reflect on what is driving us and to ask ourselves: what if it were otherwise? What if…?

Why I’m not retiring…. not just yet

How many years ago was it? Perhaps too many to recall, but I can still remember him and his stories. Steve was a little scruffy ninth grader who sat in the back of the room at old Merritt Hutton High School, a guy in need of a hair cut and a new pair of jeans.

For the month of September, he slouched down in his desk and glared. In October he slowly warmed up. In November he started submitting work. Instead of “forgetting” his homework, he hesitantly passed it forward. Each piece of paper was as scruffy as he was: crinkled, pencil smears here and there, evidence of his breakfast on one corner.

In December, I noted the pattern: the essay on Charles Manson, the free write on the mysterious disappearance of a neighbor boy, the fictional murder of a neighbor. Death hummed through each of his pieces.

I don’t recall how many he submitted or how many I read, but enough to spot a pattern.

And worry.

In January I acted. After showing his short story of the death of a neighbor, I went to see Jerry, the counselor.

When Steve returned to class after meeting with Jerry, he wouldn’t look at me. And he wouldn’t reclaim his desk. He grabbed his books, dumped his notebook on the floor, and stormed out of the room, uttering “bitch” under his breath.

And that was the last time I saw Steve.

Hey, Steve, I’m still at it because of you. I owe you one, bud, and I don’t want teachers to shut students down like I did you.

Steve was long ago at the start of my profession, but Marty was on the other side of my career. While walking through the university commons on the way to teach my Methods class, I heard my name. “Quate? Ms. Quate, is that you?” Marty beamed when I stopped. “I’ve been looking for you. Someone told me that you were teaching at UCD and I wanted to thank you. You got me writing. Remember when we…” and for the next few minutes, I listened and laughed as he talked about memories of our tenth grade class, his stories jogging long buried memories. And then we both realized we were about to be late for class.

“Thank you, Ms. Quate,”  and he hurried off to class.

And, thank you, Marty, you too are why I’m still hanging in there.

Connor was never a student of mine, but a young teen who I knew well. I watched him cope with his father’s two year battle with brain cancer, each day taking a toll on Connor, each day moving him further away from caring about quadratic equations or the separation of church and state. Connor watched  his father lose his hair but not his sense of humor, and then two years later the humor was gone as well as his ability to walk, keep up his business books, or eat dinner with the family. And Connor no longer cared about the impact of carbon emissions or the symbols in To Kill a Mockingbird.

And no one at school knew of his loss. Walking through the halls like a ghost, Connor was enveloped in his pain, invisible to his teachers, his classmates, his counselors.

“I feel like a ghost.”

And, Connor, you’re another reason why I’m hanging in here. No one should be that unseen person who floats through the halls. Everyone needs to be seen, to be known.

I often joke that  I’ll retire when I have “it” all figured out, but the truth is that as long as I have the energy and the courage, I’ll hang in to make my retributions, to celebrate successes, and to honor those students who fade into the background, faceless yet in need of adults who care.

A "Do Over" Moment (with Thanks to Alisa)

Probably all teachers have those "do over" moments, those times when we wish we could roll back the clock and do that lesson completely over.

One of my many "do over" moments was when I was early in  learning about writers workshop. I knew going public was important and so was getting feedback, so I circled my students up and naively asked who wanted to share a piece they had been working on.

It was so long ago that I don't remember her name, but I do remember that she was rather shy and had long black hair. "I have a poem I'd like to share."

And so with a blush she read it, and we gave her feedback. Rather, I gave her feedback. The rest of the students listened. Of course, I intended my feedback to be gentle and supportive and loving and would grow her as a poet.

I was wrong.

Her mother called during lunch. "Why did you tear my daughter's poem to shreds in front of the whole class? She's in tears and doesn't want to come back to your class."

Speechless doesn't describe my reaction. Stunned doesn't come close. Maybe mortified and embarrassed and guilt-ridden about what I had done to my student.

Had I spent time in Alisa Wills-Keely's class I might have known better. I might have learned how going for the good in what students do pays back big bucks and doesn't leave a student in tears.

Today I saw Alisa pull strong work from her students, display it on the doc camera, and concretely name what the students did well. I saw Alisa compliment a student by saying, "You nailed it, girl, you named the claim and got that evidence. Look at how you've grown since January." I heard Alisa tell a student that she needed to give a  mini-lesson on insights she had that would serve the class well. Not once did I hear Alisa publicly name and shame a student.

And that's what I did. I named and shamed my young poet.

With the best of intentions.

But they weren't good enough.

Alisa knows that students will do more of what they do well when it's noticed and named. She knows that students shy away from public display of errors but are attracted to public display of strengths. She knows that the growth mindset comes into play when students see what is possible, not what is wrong.

Yet Alisa doesn't shy away from pointing out needs. That's what conferences are for: those private moments when she kneels next to the student, listens hard to what he's saying, and then adds a teaching point to move him forward. But publicly she bathes him in specific, authentic praise that becomes a model for all to emulate.

Oh, yeah, if I could it over, I would. I would have provided my young poet with more models. I would have shown her and the other students how I wrestled with images in a poem, agonized over line breaks, and experimented with white space. I'd show them attempts that didn't work and ones that eventually worked. I would have knelt down beside them and listened harder long before I offered a suggestion or made that cogent teaching point. And I would have waited till they had poems to celebrate. That's when we would have gone public.

If only there were "do overs."

Recipes and Writing

I love recipes and cookbooks. In the checkout line at Sprouts, I don’t mind a long line since it gives me time to thumb through Cuisine and Cook’s Illustrated. As I scan the photos and glance at the recipes, I think about who will be sitting at the table with me. Would this recipe be one that would likely lead to a request for seconds? Would my husband beg that I cook it again? Would my guests ask for a copy of the recipe? If yes, I might pluck down my credit card and add it to my ever growing collection of recipes. If no, I pass and save ten bucks.

And so this brings me to the five-paragraph essay: the simple little recipe for writing the academic essay, “that common requisite in American schools.” Instead of one cup of flour, it’s one introduction with a three-pronged thesis statement, followed not by a teaspoon of vanilla and a whisked egg white, but three body paragraphs and a conclusion.  Ah, so easy, so basic. Such a simple recipe.

Yet who wants to sit down to a meal of five paragraph essays? Who feels compelled to read the next one and then devour one more, licking their chops and smiling in delight? Who asks the writer to explain how she wrote it so that you too could serve it up to your reader?  

No one who I know.

So why do we insist that this recipe is one that will lead students to be masters of the art of writing? Is the five paragraph essay really a no-fail recipe? Is it really the “backbone of good writing”?

I want essays to be like those dishes that I love to prepare and serve to my guests: enticing delectables for the mind. I want good food – just look at my waist line and you’ll see that – and I want to read writing that moves me intellectually and spiritually, writing that urges me to see the world in a new way or that helps me think deeper. I want to linger with the ideas, curious about how the writer beguiled me to stay with the movable feast of ideas.

When I cook, I begin with an idea or maybe a question. Desert tonight? A key lime pie could hit the mark, and I envision the finished pie sitting on the table. Only then do I organize the work space and ingredients and begin to create what I hope will be a picture perfect pie.  And near the end as I beat those eggs, I know I’m doing it to create the meringue that peaks just right so it’ll brown up in the oven. It’s about creating my version of a pie that will leave my guests begging for more.

When I write, I think about the questions and ideas that I want to explore and  imagine what the final piece might be. I don’t start with how I’m going to organize my work. After all, if I don’t have the ideas down pat, how do I know what I have to organize or what design will work best? Writers begin with ideas and then comes the work hard of figuring out how to shape the idea into something that a reader would want to linger with. They don’t begin with their organizational framework first, or, at least, I know I don’t unless, of course, I’m writing a limerick, but that’s another story.

I’ve yet to find a piece of writing that is as easy as a recipe to follow. When I’m in the act of writing, I explore ideas; I push back against my thoughts and then play with them, letting them lead me where they will. It’s a messy process, not a nice simple one like determining my three pronged points and tying all those ideas together in a neat little package at the end. No, writing is filled with solving problems and wrestling with one challenge after another.

If there were a magazine at Sprouts called Delectable Five Paragraph Essays, I doubt I’d pick it up. And I know I wouldn’t serve one to my guests.

A Critical Incident

A Critical Incident

Sometimes all it takes is one comment to rock our world. One innocent comment and our world shifts around us. Like you could guess, it was an ordinary day like any other day at Thornton High. As usual at lunch time, teachers sauntered into the English department office either with a tray from the cafeteria or with their packed lunch. I must have beat everyone in because I remember shaking off thoughts of my last class, Practical English, a class that I loved to teach but one that other teachers shied away from. Louis had told the story of his father getting into trouble with the law one more time, and Joe complained about having to close late at work the night before. That class, mostly boys, were sometimes tricky to settle down, but once we got into a grove, they often surprised me. Right now we were in the middle of a mock business venture where they had to determine the qualities of a person they’d hire, then develop interview questions, and design the application form. It was a task they enjoyed and that had prompted some hot and heavy conversation.

Just as I was thinking about Louis’ comment about whether or not a criminal record should matter in hiring decisions, our department chair walked into the office. Often her stories of her AP class were entertaining and stories that greatly differed from those I might tell about Practical English.

“You know,” she began, “I looked around the room today and noticed that I have a lot of  girls in AP, and they sure are blond!” She sat down and began eating her salad.

And I pictured my Practical English class: those boys sure weren’t blond. Louis’ last name was Lucero, and Joe’s last name was Italian, can’t remember all these years later, but I do know that I had a Gonzales and a Gomez in class. And one of the few African American students in our school sat in the third row. 

Blonde, huh?

And my guys weren’t.

Her girls were learning about Hawthorne and Hemingway. My guys were learning about business writing and filling out forms. Her girls were writing extended essays while my guys were writing letters of complaint. Her girls were talking about going to college and my guys were worrying about jobs.

And hers were blond and mine weren't.

Yep, one comment that day at lunch shifted my world and rocked me awake.

I AM WHAT I AM

I am what I am – a woman of a certain age who is still intrigued by teaching and learning and figuring out what works. Still questioning, still learning, still puzzled and still not retired. 

I am what I am! 

A hanger oner to the 70s when we believed that schools could change the world. A writer who has yet to find a formula that will make the writing easier. A traveler who moves beyond the boundaries of a school house or a district to work in a country where women wear head scarves and where I hear the call to prayers throughout the day. I am who I am: a breaker of rules, a reader, a coach, and angry when students aren’t taught to find their voice and when debate is silenced. 

I am what I am – a grandmother, a mother, a wife, a hiker and a biker. And a teacher. 

Hey, that’s what I am!

I Am What I Am

Gloria Gaynor's I am what I am

Miner's Candles and Hinky Pinks

Miner's Candles and Hinky Pinks

When I first moved into my house, my hair was long and parted in the middle, I wore granny glasses and long flowery dresses, and I wanted to bring the mountains into the city. So with all my hippie optimism, I dug up the miner's candles in the foothills and transplanted them in my city garden. I found columbines and little red elephants for a backyard plot. Oh, the miner's candles grew and spread and in a few years could be found in my neighbors' yards and in fields blocks away. The columbines died after one season and the little red elephants didn't even come up that first year.


What I didn't know about gardening was that altitude mattered and so did the surroundings. I didn't think that the little red elephants growing by the stream needed that water and that the miner's candles were profuse because they were, well, simply weeds. I had an imaginary vision of the garden I wanted to create, but I didn't have enough knowledge to make that garden a reality. Instead, I relied on aesthetics -- uninformed aesthetics, I must admit -- and naive enthusiasm.


That attitude, sadly, carried over into my teaching. In those first few years, I naively believed that if I could create a garden in my classroom, the students would grow. So like I plucked the mountain flowers and replanted them in my city garden, I plucked lessons that I discovered and replanted them in my classroom. And like my home garden, I didn't check that the growing conditions were right, and I didn't consider the future of those lessons. 


With just a bit of a blush, I remember hearing about a teaching practice that sounded engaging and, frankly, fun, so the next day it might be the lesson of the day. After listening to a college professor talk about hinky pinks, I developed a lesson where we "hinky pinked." Somewhere I heard about having students play with language through metaphor, so we figured out what was like an unsharpened pencil lying on an empty desk. And then I heard about how to teach students to write a sure-fired, guaranteed high quality essay with five clearly defined paragraphs. Those teaching practices were the miner's candles of my teaching: random and unprincipled.


And when I visit some classrooms I see the teaching version of my gardening from those days long ago. I see some teaching practices that are like those miner's candles: spreading like weeds. Others are like the little red elephants: can't grow in the setting that they've been transported to. But the reason they can't grow are more insidious than my innocent plucking of flowers and hoping that they would spread. Some of the practices that I see can't grow because they simply shouldn't grow. Just like miner's candles don't belong in a city garden, some practices don't belong in a classroom.


And some practices result from teachers who are like the gardener that I was those years ago. I didn't know what I was doing, but I had the best of intentions and I knew I wanted the beauty of the mountains in my backyard. 


A few years ago I hired a landscape architect and invested in books on gardening. The yard that I have now is filled with whirling butterflies, delphiniums, and lavender. They fit within the environment of the city, and the flowers rebloom each year. 


That's what we need as we plan for the garden of our classroom. What are the practices that work? That with tending will produce the results we want? What are the weeds we need to yank out of the ground, and what's the fertilizer that will nurture the roots? And what do we need to learn in order to be the best gardeners of young minds that we can be?