Day Twelve: How do you envision your teaching changing over the next five years?
This is an interesting prompt because I don't know what I don't know yet.
My vision for myself in five years revolves around continuing to focus more on the learning than the teaching.
The teaching--the dissemination of information--is the easy part. The act of learning--helping students actually grow as readers and writers and communicators--is the hard part. And the deeper I go into this profession, the more I realize the vast gap between the two. This will continue to become more prevalent as technology shifts seat time and face-to-face interaction in our classrooms. I have no crystal ball to foresee what this will look like, but I have to imagine that there could be changes in the way we do business in five years--or at least that will be on the horizon. But this is okay as long as we remember that students need teachers to guide them on their paths.
This journey is not just about technology, however. It's about the evolution of fear. When I started teaching, I was so afraid of losing control, of no learning happening, that I over-scripted and controlled everything, thus guaranteeing that each student would learn at a minimal level. As I grow as a teacher, the fear shifts. I'm now afraid of my fear of losing control hindering student potential to learn in my room. This is a much better place to sit because it places student learning directly at the center.
So, in five years, what do I see?As I become a more skilled professional, I will ask better questions that help students do better thinking. I will listen better during writing conferences because I will continue to understand that this is the way it has to be, regardless of time constraints. I will do less work for students that they can do for themselves. I will continue to grow bolder.
But the reason I say that I don't know what I don't know is that there is a strange paradox in teaching. A wise veteran teacher whom I interviewed for my masters work on teacher sustainability said something to the effect of, "The strange thing about teaching is that the better you get, the harder it gets. You just keep finding new questions and different things you could do better." This is so true. Perhaps in five years, I'll have discovered a whole new element of writing conferences that is NOT about listening and absolutely crucial, but that door is closed to me until I learn how to listen.
This is the most frustrating, amazing, invigorating thing about teaching.
P.S. In five years, I will be more gentle with myself.
Showing posts with label #reflectiveteacher. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #reflectiveteacher. Show all posts
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Monday, September 8, 2014
Day Eight: Ode to a Desk
Day Eight: What's in your desk drawer, and what can you infer from its contents?
From the top middle drawer, I pull out lip balm a few times a day. In the top right drawer, I put away my remotes every night when I am resetting the room. In the bottom right drawer, there is a giant bag of trail mix from which I grab a handful most afternoons. My "technology drawer" is jammed full of manuals and chargers and boxes and cords that I "might need someday."
None of this seems too interesting to me. The lip balm and trail mix demonstrate my need to be comfortable while teaching. The technology drawer captures my teaching hoarder: the part of me that fears that the second I get rid of something will be exactly when I need it. The resting place for my remotes demonstrates my deep desire to be organized, something I work on every single day (and this year, it's actually sort of clicking).
What is interesting to me about my desk is the sticky drawer, the one that I have to jam to the side and hold at just the right angle to close. My desk was a throw-away, placed in the hallway for auction by a teacher who'd ordered a new stainless steel model. I saw it there--a big, old, oak beauty, with water stains and pen ridges and little tables you could pull above the drawers--and I knew that I had to have it in my room instead of the flimsy metal space saver that was currently there.
I didn't notice the drawer until several weeks into our time together. The humidity had risen just right for it to start acting up.
I still loved my desk and chalked it up to character. When the inspector toured our 100 year old house to look for significant problems, he minimized the sloping dining room floor, the peeling paint in the window boxes, the strange wiring in the attic. "It's all part of the charm of an old house," he'd say, and I knew he was someone who spoke my language. In houses, furniture, books, I've always loved to imagine the backstory of what this object meant to someone else. Not only are older things more beautiful to me, they're somehow wiser, even inanimate objects. I know this doesn't make much sense.
I'd like to say that the sticky drawer is a metaphor for something, that it reminds me that some students stick before they are able to move, or that the old oak slab reminds me of the wisdom of those before me. But none of those things would be true. I just like my desk; I like its character, its warmth, its backstory. And a little more beauty and a little more story in each day never hurt anything.
From the top middle drawer, I pull out lip balm a few times a day. In the top right drawer, I put away my remotes every night when I am resetting the room. In the bottom right drawer, there is a giant bag of trail mix from which I grab a handful most afternoons. My "technology drawer" is jammed full of manuals and chargers and boxes and cords that I "might need someday."
None of this seems too interesting to me. The lip balm and trail mix demonstrate my need to be comfortable while teaching. The technology drawer captures my teaching hoarder: the part of me that fears that the second I get rid of something will be exactly when I need it. The resting place for my remotes demonstrates my deep desire to be organized, something I work on every single day (and this year, it's actually sort of clicking).
What is interesting to me about my desk is the sticky drawer, the one that I have to jam to the side and hold at just the right angle to close. My desk was a throw-away, placed in the hallway for auction by a teacher who'd ordered a new stainless steel model. I saw it there--a big, old, oak beauty, with water stains and pen ridges and little tables you could pull above the drawers--and I knew that I had to have it in my room instead of the flimsy metal space saver that was currently there.
I didn't notice the drawer until several weeks into our time together. The humidity had risen just right for it to start acting up.
I still loved my desk and chalked it up to character. When the inspector toured our 100 year old house to look for significant problems, he minimized the sloping dining room floor, the peeling paint in the window boxes, the strange wiring in the attic. "It's all part of the charm of an old house," he'd say, and I knew he was someone who spoke my language. In houses, furniture, books, I've always loved to imagine the backstory of what this object meant to someone else. Not only are older things more beautiful to me, they're somehow wiser, even inanimate objects. I know this doesn't make much sense.
I'd like to say that the sticky drawer is a metaphor for something, that it reminds me that some students stick before they are able to move, or that the old oak slab reminds me of the wisdom of those before me. But none of those things would be true. I just like my desk; I like its character, its warmth, its backstory. And a little more beauty and a little more story in each day never hurt anything.
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Day Seven: Inspiring Colleagues
Day Seven: Who was or is your most inspiring colleague and why?
I sit awash in memory, trying to choose one moment to "write small" about, and nothing comes. From my first days in the classroom as a field experience student to my current place as a sort-of-veteran teacher, colleagues have shown me again and again what it means to be a teacher.
In chronological order, the following folks inspire me.
Debbie Victor radiated optimism while working in a building where the system was working against. She never worked like those students deserved less.
Andrew Rasmussen taught me what passion looks like--for project-based, authentic learning, for public education, and for student-centered thinking, always, no matter what.
Heather Isaacson inspires through kindness, through tears (happy and sad) for all of her kids' stories and backgrounds and accomplishments. She will not rest until teachers that work with students can understand the big picture about their situations and what they need. She changes kids' lives.
Donna Mallin inspires through language, through beautiful writing, through considerate feedback, through a focused lens that reminds me what our discipline is truly about. Her wisdom slays me.
Abby Hendrickson casts a wide net for ideas and refuses to be satisfied with something that is almost just-right. She sends links in the night and pushes back against settling and her big-picture revisionist thinking has made me a better teacher.
Jennifer Paulsen's commitment to professional growth and reading is astounding. If there is a theory you thought was new, Jen heard of it a decade ago. Her joy for reading, her lack of elite thinking about reading, the way she connects kids with books and helps them shape their identities as readers... wow.
Lori Engel never--not a single time--shows frustration or impatience despite her work with some challenging students. Her humility and desire to keep growing remind me to be more open-minded, more patient, more willing to serve.
And the faces are still coming. I've named teachers with whom I've worked (and one advisor) here, but there are faces of administrators who did not choose the easy path, faces of professors, faces of colleagues in my master's program, and more and more and more teachers. I'm going to stop because I want to watch Breaking Bad and eat ice cream with my husband, but this is the point: this is a profession of inspiring people. While the myth of the "bad teacher" may be alive and well in some circles, it does not exist in my actual teaching life. May we continue to fight for professional decision-making so that the creativity and wisdom and inspiration in those above can continue to help students flourish.
I sit awash in memory, trying to choose one moment to "write small" about, and nothing comes. From my first days in the classroom as a field experience student to my current place as a sort-of-veteran teacher, colleagues have shown me again and again what it means to be a teacher.
In chronological order, the following folks inspire me.
Debbie Victor radiated optimism while working in a building where the system was working against. She never worked like those students deserved less.
Andrew Rasmussen taught me what passion looks like--for project-based, authentic learning, for public education, and for student-centered thinking, always, no matter what.
Heather Isaacson inspires through kindness, through tears (happy and sad) for all of her kids' stories and backgrounds and accomplishments. She will not rest until teachers that work with students can understand the big picture about their situations and what they need. She changes kids' lives.
Donna Mallin inspires through language, through beautiful writing, through considerate feedback, through a focused lens that reminds me what our discipline is truly about. Her wisdom slays me.
Abby Hendrickson casts a wide net for ideas and refuses to be satisfied with something that is almost just-right. She sends links in the night and pushes back against settling and her big-picture revisionist thinking has made me a better teacher.
Jennifer Paulsen's commitment to professional growth and reading is astounding. If there is a theory you thought was new, Jen heard of it a decade ago. Her joy for reading, her lack of elite thinking about reading, the way she connects kids with books and helps them shape their identities as readers... wow.
Lori Engel never--not a single time--shows frustration or impatience despite her work with some challenging students. Her humility and desire to keep growing remind me to be more open-minded, more patient, more willing to serve.
And the faces are still coming. I've named teachers with whom I've worked (and one advisor) here, but there are faces of administrators who did not choose the easy path, faces of professors, faces of colleagues in my master's program, and more and more and more teachers. I'm going to stop because I want to watch Breaking Bad and eat ice cream with my husband, but this is the point: this is a profession of inspiring people. While the myth of the "bad teacher" may be alive and well in some circles, it does not exist in my actual teaching life. May we continue to fight for professional decision-making so that the creativity and wisdom and inspiration in those above can continue to help students flourish.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Day Six: Tribute to a Mentor
I skipped yesterday and thought I could make it up today, but since it involves posting a photo of my classroom, it will have to wait for another time. No guilt here. Thanks to a dear friend, I'm working on banishing "should."
Day Six: What does a good mentor do?
My mentor taught me to have high expectations for student even when their home lives suck, that it was okay (and often better) to use blunt directives than weak requests (when dealing with middle school students), that leaving a pile of work to go have a drink with colleagues is worth it, and that laughter--every day--is an imperative part of this work.
My mentor was a science teacher, a veteran of twenty or so years who was not only raising her two children, but also a few extras that moved in sometimes. She taught me what I needed to know about managing a classroom, interacting positively with parents while standing my ground, maintaining a professional learning life, and being respected as a hard-working and serious leader among colleagues.
I don't know that she was trying to teach me these things. I learned these things by watching her in her daily teaching life.
These are the things she did:
1. Took the time every single today to let me process and find the good (most days--except for those really crazy ones when there is none to be found). I have no idea how many extra hours she must have had to work that year because I was taking up so much of her time. I was twenty-three, still in my self-centered bubble, and it probably never occurred to me that she might not want to chat about our days because she had other things to do.
2. Treated me like a full-blown colleague. I had to be making dumb mistakes right and left, but she sought my input and never made me feel like a first-year teacher. This helped me have the confidence to feel like I was actually doing the job I was supposed to do.
3. Listened to what I needed. She did not try to offer advice without understanding what it was I was asking for. So often it was just humor.
4. Gave it to me straight. In my status as an eternal optimist, I needed the curtain to be pulled back a few times about what was going on with the big picture in our district. She told me what I needed to know. If I was struggling through something and spinning because I couldn't see that something I was doing was the problem, she would bring it to my attention. Kindly but frankly.
I'm not sure if all new teachers need what I did, but as I process my experience, I'll bet that these four pillars are pretty important. Nancy Johnson was not my district-assigned mentor; she was the mentor that happened to be right across the hall when I needed one to be there. And I am forever grateful for the impact that she had and continues to have on my teaching.
Day Six: What does a good mentor do?
My mentor taught me to have high expectations for student even when their home lives suck, that it was okay (and often better) to use blunt directives than weak requests (when dealing with middle school students), that leaving a pile of work to go have a drink with colleagues is worth it, and that laughter--every day--is an imperative part of this work.
My mentor was a science teacher, a veteran of twenty or so years who was not only raising her two children, but also a few extras that moved in sometimes. She taught me what I needed to know about managing a classroom, interacting positively with parents while standing my ground, maintaining a professional learning life, and being respected as a hard-working and serious leader among colleagues.
I don't know that she was trying to teach me these things. I learned these things by watching her in her daily teaching life.
These are the things she did:
1. Took the time every single today to let me process and find the good (most days--except for those really crazy ones when there is none to be found). I have no idea how many extra hours she must have had to work that year because I was taking up so much of her time. I was twenty-three, still in my self-centered bubble, and it probably never occurred to me that she might not want to chat about our days because she had other things to do.
2. Treated me like a full-blown colleague. I had to be making dumb mistakes right and left, but she sought my input and never made me feel like a first-year teacher. This helped me have the confidence to feel like I was actually doing the job I was supposed to do.
3. Listened to what I needed. She did not try to offer advice without understanding what it was I was asking for. So often it was just humor.
4. Gave it to me straight. In my status as an eternal optimist, I needed the curtain to be pulled back a few times about what was going on with the big picture in our district. She told me what I needed to know. If I was struggling through something and spinning because I couldn't see that something I was doing was the problem, she would bring it to my attention. Kindly but frankly.
I'm not sure if all new teachers need what I did, but as I process my experience, I'll bet that these four pillars are pretty important. Nancy Johnson was not my district-assigned mentor; she was the mentor that happened to be right across the hall when I needed one to be there. And I am forever grateful for the impact that she had and continues to have on my teaching.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Day Two: Tech Talk
Day Two: Write about one piece of technology that you would like to try this year and why.
True confession: there is nothing on my current technology try-list. With all my talk yesterday about being bold, I still want to be careful that I am using technology to truly enhance student experience and not just "engage" them in activities that don't actually lead to deeper learning. However, here is a list of my current interests/explorations regarding technology.
I am interested in how writing collaboratively can help students grow as individual writers. My students have spent the last two days co-writing literary analysis paragraphs after sharing individual goals based on my feedback on their first paragraphs. I'm curious if collective ownership will take some of the pressure off--and help them learn some new tricks. We used Google docs for this collaborative writing, but the students were sitting side by side and talking as they did so.
I am interested in how Goodreads can help my students stay fired up about their independent reading and make tracking their progress fun rather than tedious.
I am interested in my own use of Twitter and the English Companion Ning. I'd like to participate in more #engchat and #titletalk for my own growth. I'm curious about students following writers on Twitter, trying to grow their muscles of positive use of social media, but I'm not sure I can get most of my 9th graders to truly buy in. I'm not sure--perhaps I was too inconsistent last year with my use of Twitter--but I wonder if young adolescents aren't too interested in combining their social space with their school spaces.
I am interested in inviting more work with visual literacy and movie-making into my room, but not at the expense of student work with words, with crafting their perspective with raw tools. Modifying language is hard enough, and I don't want to replace precious minutes with things that aren't real writing. But in the name of being bold, I think I might need to do some experimenting here.
True confession: there is nothing on my current technology try-list. With all my talk yesterday about being bold, I still want to be careful that I am using technology to truly enhance student experience and not just "engage" them in activities that don't actually lead to deeper learning. However, here is a list of my current interests/explorations regarding technology.
I am interested in how writing collaboratively can help students grow as individual writers. My students have spent the last two days co-writing literary analysis paragraphs after sharing individual goals based on my feedback on their first paragraphs. I'm curious if collective ownership will take some of the pressure off--and help them learn some new tricks. We used Google docs for this collaborative writing, but the students were sitting side by side and talking as they did so.
I am interested in how Goodreads can help my students stay fired up about their independent reading and make tracking their progress fun rather than tedious.
I am interested in my own use of Twitter and the English Companion Ning. I'd like to participate in more #engchat and #titletalk for my own growth. I'm curious about students following writers on Twitter, trying to grow their muscles of positive use of social media, but I'm not sure I can get most of my 9th graders to truly buy in. I'm not sure--perhaps I was too inconsistent last year with my use of Twitter--but I wonder if young adolescents aren't too interested in combining their social space with their school spaces.
I am interested in inviting more work with visual literacy and movie-making into my room, but not at the expense of student work with words, with crafting their perspective with raw tools. Modifying language is hard enough, and I don't want to replace precious minutes with things that aren't real writing. But in the name of being bold, I think I might need to do some experimenting here.
Monday, September 1, 2014
Day One: Goals
In an effort to jumpstart my reflective writing this year, I've decided to participate in @teachthought's 30 day blogging challenge.
Day One: Write your goals for the school year. Be as specific or as abstract as you'd like to be.
Before the school year began, on a walk with my family, I said that I had one goal for this school year: Be. Bold.
The primary source of this goal comes from my district's move to a 1:1 district using Google Chromebooks. I told my husband that I was afraid that if I didn't set a major intention to be bold using technology, I would let the fear of the unknown, of the temptation to constantly monitor, of my own skill deficits in technology, to hinder the potential of student creation, collaboration, and meaningful work that access to these tools would offer. I didn't want to spend the year managing or worrying; I wanted to spend the year challenging students to come up with new solutions that didn't exist before. I wanted to spend the year allowing students to teach me about their online literacies so I could help them build more cohesive, informed, engaging voices--so they can participate better in what actually matters to them while I expose them to literacies that matter to others.
But boldness in the classroom isn't just about technology. It's about loosening the reins and the plans so real learning can happen. As a first year teacher, I had my share of management problems. (And while we can all tell stories, did you have a fire set in your classroom? Didn't think so.) And they made me miserable. So I have been bound and determined, ever since, that I would be the boss of my classroom. This has led me to start student desks in a grid, every year, to emit seriousness and structure. This has led me to stop every sidebar with a hawklike look so that they don't escalate into larger problems. This has also led to somewhat weak discussion patterns, in part, because I am afraid at times I hold too much authority in the room. Now in my ninth year, I don't need to be afraid of management. I don't have to pretend that I'm the boss anymore because I just know it. I can handle things as they arise. So as one step, I started my desks in a rectangle, a discussion formation. So far, there has been no mutiny.
Boldness also moves into trusting myself as a master educator. While I have loads to learn, still and always, even my license says that I'm an expert. I will do my job and teach the standards I am supposed to teach. But I will do so in a manner that fosters curiosity and bold behaviors in my own students. I will trust my gut when things don't feel right and allow myself to follow a teachable moment when things do. I have spent the last few years letting too many outside forces shape what my classroom is rather than allowing the outside forces to enhance it.
This is the year that I trust my students to learn from their own mistakes regarding technology. This is the year that I trust conversation to lead to learning. And this is the year I trust myself to know what is right. The two rules in Room 9 this year are Be Bold and Be Curious. It has to start with me.
Day One: Write your goals for the school year. Be as specific or as abstract as you'd like to be.
Before the school year began, on a walk with my family, I said that I had one goal for this school year: Be. Bold.
The primary source of this goal comes from my district's move to a 1:1 district using Google Chromebooks. I told my husband that I was afraid that if I didn't set a major intention to be bold using technology, I would let the fear of the unknown, of the temptation to constantly monitor, of my own skill deficits in technology, to hinder the potential of student creation, collaboration, and meaningful work that access to these tools would offer. I didn't want to spend the year managing or worrying; I wanted to spend the year challenging students to come up with new solutions that didn't exist before. I wanted to spend the year allowing students to teach me about their online literacies so I could help them build more cohesive, informed, engaging voices--so they can participate better in what actually matters to them while I expose them to literacies that matter to others.
But boldness in the classroom isn't just about technology. It's about loosening the reins and the plans so real learning can happen. As a first year teacher, I had my share of management problems. (And while we can all tell stories, did you have a fire set in your classroom? Didn't think so.) And they made me miserable. So I have been bound and determined, ever since, that I would be the boss of my classroom. This has led me to start student desks in a grid, every year, to emit seriousness and structure. This has led me to stop every sidebar with a hawklike look so that they don't escalate into larger problems. This has also led to somewhat weak discussion patterns, in part, because I am afraid at times I hold too much authority in the room. Now in my ninth year, I don't need to be afraid of management. I don't have to pretend that I'm the boss anymore because I just know it. I can handle things as they arise. So as one step, I started my desks in a rectangle, a discussion formation. So far, there has been no mutiny.
Boldness also moves into trusting myself as a master educator. While I have loads to learn, still and always, even my license says that I'm an expert. I will do my job and teach the standards I am supposed to teach. But I will do so in a manner that fosters curiosity and bold behaviors in my own students. I will trust my gut when things don't feel right and allow myself to follow a teachable moment when things do. I have spent the last few years letting too many outside forces shape what my classroom is rather than allowing the outside forces to enhance it.
This is the year that I trust my students to learn from their own mistakes regarding technology. This is the year that I trust conversation to lead to learning. And this is the year I trust myself to know what is right. The two rules in Room 9 this year are Be Bold and Be Curious. It has to start with me.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)