Teaching Underwater

Time has gone wonky since the pandemic began, hasn't it? I'm having trouble remembering when things happened, and part of my brain is absolutely sure that it's still 2020, even though now it's nearly 2022. 

School, which has always been a high pressure, has so much pressure these days that I risk getting the bends when I leave and go back home. 

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Actually scuba diving isn't a bad metaphor for this school year. I have to wear special protective gear and there's a lot of beauty down here, but also some things that are trying to eat me. 

So all that is to say, that I'm going to try to get back to using this blog for a bit of reflection this next semester. But the tone will be a little different. I get local pushback and flack every time I dare to say something the slightest bit critical on this blog--toxic positivity is a real thing, folks. 

So, in the spirit of choosing my battles and only fighting those where there is hope of making change, I'll be less public about my criticisms and focus on tools and suggestions only here. 

Testing: 2021 Edition

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Anyone who has talked to me or read my blog knows I am not a fan of the emphasis on external testing that has become the norm in public education. 

In the most cynical corners of my heart, I believe the entire system comes down to profiteering on a system that is meant to be a service to our citizens, and deep-seated misogyny that says we can't take the word of women (teaching is a woman-dominated field) regardless of their training or expertise. 

Even in the less cynical corners of my heart (where I hope that we take on some of this in order to ensure equity for students), I still resent how much time we lose to it and HATE that it's always the LAST thing students do, so they leave for summer thinking school is an absolute grind designed to make them feel stupid. 

Here are some older posts about testing: 

• EOG Testing: What It's Like on the Inside 
• EOG Testing: The Waiting Place
• Prisoners to the Test

In 2020, students and teachers in North Carolina received a brief reprieve from this system--one blessing among the curses sent by the pandemic--but it returned in 2021, despite the entire school year being a hot mess of constantly changing expectations. At my school, that meant that we gave every test three times: once to Week A students, once to Week B students, and once to Remote students, who were brought back to the building in person for that purpose. 

On Friday, I was a proctor for three classrooms of Remote students taking their Math EOGs. Here's my completely subjective and biased description of what it was like: 

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The stark, spare atmosphere of sad isolated desks scattered in an unloved room. Bright light reflecting on institutional brick and tile until it burns the eye. A fan rattles in the background and a fluorescent bulb flickers haphazardly, adding to the feeling of neglect and despair. We had to give each test three times this year, so this is already day seven, with four more to go, perhaps five or six with make-ups.

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Kids sit unnaturally still--the kind of still that happens in horror movies right before you find out that child is actually a zombie or ghost, or some other creature. 

They've been cowed by the threat of "having to do all this again" if anyone exhibits enough personality that the testing environment is compromised and we have a misadministration. Hoodies are worn like armor against the psychological freeze. 

The caring adults who nurtured these children all year are forced to act as prison wardens--no quarter given. Discontent wafts from the room, a stench palpable as a heap of garbage left rotting in the August sun. 

The kids want to please us, so they comply, even though it is confusing and alien--this impersonal silence. We love them, so we try to pretend that all this means something besides a money-grab by testing companies capitalizing on the culture of distrust they helped to carefully cultivate. We pretend the testing "data" provides insights that help with teaching and learning. 

In our hearts, everyone knows we are pretending, but we do it all the same to protect ourselves from the truth and keep enough heart to go on in the face of abuse and gaslighting on a national scale. The best slaves beat themselves, and people who serve out of love are easy to manipulate. 

Teachers and students. All feeling helpless and trapped. 

The more competitive kids click through with brutal efficiency while others seem to choose answers through a process of divination, looking for signs in the words--a hidden code. 

Memorial Day shines on the horizon like a rescue boat approaching the wreckage of the Titanic, an inadequate life raft that will offer only a few of us even a temporary reprieve. 

We'll spend the next two months trying to repair the emotional trauma, medicating with games, sleep, books, or whatever dulls the pain, hoping to fill the well back to a level that will last all the following year. Those who survive enough times to be called "veterans" worry about the callouses they are developing over these wounds. Callouses that make it harder to onto empathy and stave off bitter cynicism. 

And this is the last thing kids do each year before they are sent off for summer. Ending not with joy and accomplishment, but with cold silence and feelings of failure. How can this be what is best for kids? 

Wait, it's March?

February is a short month. And the February I just finished was one of the longest of my life. I guess that's why I haven't written anything here since January. 

So, here's a status check on Samantha's teaching life: 

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I had been approved for an ADA accommodation and expected to return to work on April 2. 

I was content with that, since I had every reason to expect that I would be fully immunized by then, and my district had a conservative return plan which would have had roughly 1/3 of my students in person at any given time. 

Small numbers + good precautions (including air filters!) + vaccination = safe enough Samantha. 

Then the state of North Carolina tried to push through legislation that forced schools into in-person offerings without following CDC recommendations and they wanted to do it super quickly. 

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So, my school district pivoted, and changed the plan. (the bill eventually failed, but we're still in person sooner anyway and I think the district probably did the right thing avoiding last minute panic and not pivoting AGAIN--we were all getting whiplash from the back and forth). 

So, three days before I became eligible for the vaccination, my ADA accommodation ended and I was flung into the hybrid classroom. 

My stress went through the stratosphere. I considered applying for a new ADA accommodation based on the stress levels and effects on my mental health, but I had every indication that would not be considered, and we made the decision to trust to the PPE we were able to acquire to keep me safe. 

On the good side, my district took it slow. Roughly 60% of my students are not returning to school--their families opted to remain on remote. The remaining 40% was basically divided in half: 20% on Cohort A, and 20% on Cohort B and come to school 4 days a week on an alternating week schedule. 

So far, my largest in person group is nine students and it's pretty easy to keep them six feet apart in my normal-sized classroom. Ask again tomorrow though, because I haven't had the same class lists two days in a row yet. 

We also took two weeks of transition/orientation: Monday, only 6th graders came to school; Tuesday, we added 7th graders; Wednesday we added 8th graders. Rinse and repeat with Cohort B the second week. 

So it's only this week that I've started having ALL my classes. I teach three classes a day on hybrid: which means I have some kids physically in my room and some kids in a zoom meeting at the same time. One set of classes on Monday/Wednesday and the other on Tuesday/Thursday. 

That slow roll out came with a lot of confusion:

• kids didn't understand where to be and when because all the class times changed
• families didn't fully understand what kinds of restrictions in-person learning would operate under (even though we TRIED to convey that information repeatedly)
• last minute decisions to come to school in person or change back to remote learning happened and keep happening
• switching which kids were in which group to solve transportation issues
• letting *some* kids come both weeks if there was an educational support reason to do so and space allowed, etc. 
• changing rules about how to handle lunch, PE, and music courses
• approval of an app to speed staff check-in, then un-approval and re-approval of that app. 

My role sheets are nothing but scribble-outs and arrows. 

After teaching middle school all these years, I know this age group doesn't handle irregularities in the schedule well, and it's been nothing but irregularities so far. So, in that sense it's been a hot mess. 

The stress levels are so heavy I'm surprised any teachers can yank their shoulders out of their ear lobes at all. I'm not especially prone to stress-related illness, but I've been exhausted, nauseated, headachey, eye-sore, and throat-sore in turns. 

I'm no longer able to help facilitate the flow for my own child during the school day, so my husband who still works from home has to try to manage our ADD kiddo among all his meetings without my help. They've stepped up and it's gone okay--though the kiddo isn't eating well enough or regularly enough and has ebbs and flows about managing their workload without the accustomed support. 

We're feeling lucky that our kid is old enough to manage some of this without hand-holding at least. I remember my own children's toddler and young childhood years well enough to know those parents have it harder. 

So thank you to my students who are trying their best to make this possible and are being so patient while their teachers figure out how to manage two different information flows at the same time and be there for everyone. I hope we gain something that makes us feel like it was worth it. 

The Joys of Fresh Starts

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One of the great joys of a teaching life is how often you get a fresh start. You know that "New Year's" kind of feeling, when you've got the possibilities of "new" in front of you and you can set new goals to do better at whatever you wish to prioritize? Or like moving into a new house, or starting a new job. It's like that, but more often. 

Depending on the specifics of your teaching assignment, you might get new classes and new students at different intervals. 

For me, currently, I get new 6th graders every 9 weeks, new 7th graders each semester, and new 8th graders once a year. 

I'm the only Spanish teacher at my school so there's some carry over from year to year (kids I teach more than once), but they're never combined in the same way, so each new class is its own entity. I get this interesting combination of longevity in relationships and getting to know new students at the same time. I love it. 

Yesterday, the start of my new semester, I got four brand new classes: two 6th grade and two 7th grade. My eighth graders, I get to keep a bit longer yet. 

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That clean slate feeling helps keep me motivated and excited about my work. If I tried a new organizational system and it failed, I can scrap it and try something else entirely. If a group of students struggled with a topic, I can reassess how I presented that material and try again from a different angle. 

That combination of "brand new" and "next iteration" feeds my practice and helps me continue to grow even though I've been teaching a similar set of classes for many years now. 

How about you, fellow teachers and other readers? How often do you get a chance to start fresh in your lives? How does it feel to you? 

After Holiday Musings

Today was my first day back in the virtual classroom after our winter holidays break. 

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Even though I tried not to get so far off pattern on sleep that I would struggle, I failed, succumbing to "quiet house syndrome" and staying up late reading, watching movies, and playing games. So I had a hard time falling asleep last night and a hard time waking up this morning. In fact, I was so sleepy, I resorted to a double shot espresso--something I usually save for Fridays.

I know that breaks like these are supposed to be for recouping my energy and enthusiasm, but I find that my bounce-back is slower with each year. My current theory is that I've been teaching for 26 years, and the recovery period for that is 26 years. So check back when I'm in my 80s and we'll see if I've recovered ;-)

I'm not a big winter holidays person--even before the plague descended in 2020, I avoided holiday travel, big parties, and over the top celebration plans in favor of quiet time with those I love best. So, this holiday season wasn't really that different than my normal. In fact, it was better for rest and recuperation, since there was a lot less external pressure to get out and do things. 

Staying home meant I was a good citizen instead of an antisocial introvert. My extroverted friends didn't keep trying to save me from what they regard as sad and lonely boredom. 

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Still, I wasn't ready, emotionally and physically, to get back on the teaching horse today, but you know what? As soon as I stepped into a classroom with kids (even a digital one), that all went away. It was so genuinely good to see and hear from my kiddos and know they were okay, to hear about their gifts (and thankfully not very many travels), and even to hear them whine about coming to school. 

It's funny how I can need recovery time and a break from my students and miss them fiercely at the same time. So welcome back, kiddos. I really did miss you. May the new year bring you joy and learning. I look forward to seeing who you become. 

"We Value Teachers" and Other Lies

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I lost another colleague yesterday. Thankfully not to death (though I worry about this daily now), but to retirement. That makes three already this year and I don't blame them a bit. I've looked at retirement myself, though it's complicated for me because I don't have the optimum number of years (having spread my career across four states) to get full benefits yet and I'm too young. The calculus of life vs. livelihood is complex when you have others to support by your work. 

Besides the three who retired, I know of one who is leaving the profession and another seeking a transfer, in hopes that another school will value her work and treat her better. I've thought about both of those options, too. I love teaching, but I also love being able to protect myself and those I love from infection and death. 

Lots of us are in the crisis decision moment right now, as our district is sending staff back to the buildings on Monday and students back in January (don't get me started on the lack of faith in us this shows). I expect to see more and more talented educators making the hard choice to leave the work they love. 

I keep getting messages from my district, my state, and my country playing lip service to the idea that they value teachers. But I don't see it. Saying thank you is easy; showing actual support and appreciation is much more difficult. 

If we were valued, our voices would be at the forefront of conversations about how to handle education under the current crisis. Instead, there's barely even performative attempts to include teachers--the workers with the most expertise and most at risk--in the conversation at all. 

I fill out all the surveys I am sent and participate in all the meetings, but there's no evidence so far that it is worth my time. The results send a clear message, one that is ignored in favor of what's easier for the institution. Though we allow our students' families to choose to stay home and continue virtual education, teachers will not be afforded the same right, even though we are more at risk than our students, especially the veterans. You don't become an experienced teacher without getting old, and you rarely get old without developing some underlying conditions that put you at additional risk.  

If we were valued, the communication from above would show that those above me in the hierarchy know what I am doing and are looking for ways to make it easier and more sustainable. Even though I work in a small school district, where you would think it would be easier to keep track of who is here and what we're doing, there's little sign that anyone who isn't a direct parallel colleague understands what I actually do. It's like being a baker whose supervisor last used an oven when you had to stoke an actual fire inside to bake.   

And this is America, after all, so if we were valued, our country would put their money where their mouth is. Money would have flowed towards resources to make safe education from home tenable--providing infrastructure and tools as well as paying attractive salaries to bring our country's brightest and best to the fight. Internet access would have become free and fast for any household with a student in it. You can always tell what a capitalist REALLY values, by looking at the bottom line, and education is far too near the bottom across the board. 

So, thanks for saying you value me and my work. But if you really do, then prove it. 

Balancing Grace and Expectations: Grading in the Time of COVID

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We're coming to the end of a quarter in my school district, so time for the first of four grade panics we'll see this year. Some of my students did not perform well this past nine weeks, and have low grades to reflect that. 

This isn't a surprise. In 26 years of teaching, I've never had a year without some students who failed to perform. 

The tricky thing right now is ascertaining the reasons. Even trickier than in other years.

Some kids simply didn't do the work. There were no particular obstacles in the way. 

They have the necessary supplies and the teacher provided guidance and opportunities to pursue clarification, but they still didn't turn in the work. They lacked motivation, maybe, or were testing boundaries to see what the penalties might turn out to be, or the siren call of the X-box was louder than anything else they were hearing from their adults. 

Other kids didn't do the work, but there are mitigating circumstances that I am aware of: limited access to the internet, language barriers, instability at home, mental health concerns, non-functioning computers (our district's computers were due to be replaced in August, but we're still waiting on our new ones to arrive, so we're making do with dying and failing machines), or any number of other factors that have been communicated to me by families, students, or other staff at school. 

My students are 12-14 years-old, for the most part. In the best of circumstances, they are in their first years of learning to navigate multiple teachers with disparate ways of doing things, and there will be confusion and mistakes. So, even when things are at their best, there's still an argument for grace, forgiveness, patience, and second chances. 

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We're not in the best of circumstances right now. Even the lucky ones among us are still in the middle of a pandemic, which affects each of us differently. 

The students and their families vary in their comfort with and skill at communicating with the teachers and school. Admitting you are confused and need help requires trust and faith that your admission will meet with kindness and offers of help. Too many families have had negative experiences that have taught them to be wary--rigid teachers, inflexible policies, systemic ignorance of equity issues.

Sometimes school creates trauma, usually unintentionally . . .but intention doesn't matter when a person has already been hurt. And that trauma makes building trust harder for each subsequent educator. 

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So, how do I assign grades fairly?  I ask myself that *all* the time . . .but this year, it's a wider spread consideration. How do I tell if it's fair to give a kid a zero and when I need to offer grace instead because they really are doing the best they can with what they've got right now? 

What I do is have as many conversations as I can. I reach out to children and their families, expressing concern and offering support. 

I've purchased chargers out of my own pocket, helped navigate our district's systems for things like hotspots and replacement equipment, exempted kids from assignments to streamline the work flow, sat in zoom meetings to walk parents and kids through and show them exactly where to go to find resources and how to turn in work. 

I want all my kids to "get there," so I've tried to offer multiple paths that will let kids experience success and build trust in me and in the process so they can keep moving forward, building positive momentum. 

But there are families who don't respond to my queries. Or whose responses are less than forthcoming.

 So, I'll do my best to judge them fairly. I'll look at all the data I have. I'll ask the other adults who work with the child--teachers, the nurse, the office staff--and see if anyone has insight they can share with me. I give the benefit of the doubt and assume good intentions as much as possible. But, in the end, I will assign a grade. That number won't represent the full picture, but it's the system I have to work within. 

If it were up to me, I wouldn't give grades. I'd write a narrative for each kid, summarizing strengths and weaknesses, work ethic and obstacles, and pass that information along to the next educator to help them meet this child where they are and move them forward. But, I've yet to teach anywhere that offered me that option. 

Schooling in America is fond of trying to take a messy, subjective and personal process and boil it down to a number that we claim is objective. Foolish, at least in my opinion, but not something I have the power to change. 

So, fellow teachers, what do you take into account when you're trying to assign a number to a child's progress? How do you try to make it fair and representative of effort and progress? 

And students and families? What purpose do grades serve for you? How do you use that feedback to grow and further your goals?