Day Three: Not Getting It
I hate being called 'Mister'. Oh, man, do I hate it. I feel like it's the formal equivalent of 'hey, you'. It's something that has just gotten under my skin from the first time I heard it when I began teaching in Fitchburg. I've noticed that Hispanic students say it frequently, and it never fails to get to me.
Now, I can say with certainty that I didn't get it, and I need to get over it. I'm working on it this week, because 'Mister' is all I hear. My last name is hard for some to pronounce, especially for people whose languages don't have those sorts of letter patterns (Dudley is even hard for some English speakers to pronounce).
There is a lot that I think we think we understand as teachers. We think we understand poverty and lack of access to resources. We think we understand power and privilege and prestige. We think we understand student achievement, and the power of language, and the importance of speaking the right one. In the ELL professional development sessions, we think we understand how to help students who have to fight to learn English and the content we teach in the same setting, especially when it's the expression we value, almost more than the content itself.
Andover and Lawrence are interesting neighbors. One is a poor, old mill town, a meeting of immigrants for over a century. At the Claddagh Pub race in February, the mayor of Lawrence said that it is a city of immigrants; always has been, always will be. Andover, however, is different. It is on a big hill, far above Lawrence. Andover has money, and it shows. Kept lawns. Nice houses. New buildings. Phillips Academy. New school buses and police cars. Newly paved streets free of potholes after this brutal winter. Data showing a population of 231 millionaires and one of the highest median incomes in the state and in the region.
I went to lunch at Chipotle in Andover yesterday. To get to Chipotle, I get off of I-93 and head south off of exit 42a, up a huge hill. Lawrence High School is in the opposite direction. I can see it on the hill, far off in the distance. I go in and order, and after I pay for my food, I notice immediately how white Chipotle is. Socially responsible food. Modern decor. Recycled paper napkins that tell you they're recycled paper napkins. Every single worker behind the counter speaks Spanish, and every last diner is white.
I can say this with certainty: we don't get it. Any of it. At all.
I didn't get it. I still don't.
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There is one thing I do get, though: "Mister, I'm tired."
I heard that a lot today, our day on geometry. A whole formula sheet of shapes, figures, letters, numbers, conversion factors, terms, turns of phrase (I mean, come on, a right rectangular prism is a goddamned BOX). Just looking at that sheet could make a person's eyes cross. And I'm not doing drill on this. No way.
So out we go. Meter sticks in hand, a hundred-foot tape measure. Out of the classroom for the third straight day.
There are spheres outside of the school. Find the surface area. Find the volume. Don't forget the units. The what? The units. The thing on the number that tells you how you're measuring.
Go to break. Come back from break. Head back out...then, I'm stopped by a man with a camera. "Hi," he says, and introduces himself. "Are you Mr... Mr..."
"Dudley. Yes, I'm Mr. Dudley."
"I'm told you're one of the teachers I have to see. You're on my list."
Great. They're here to film me.
-----------------------------------------------
I have stopped being nervous about being watched. I love it when people see me teach. I want feedback because I want to improve and something can always be improved. This time, though, I'm very nervous. What am I nervous about? Looking for the geometry that exists in our everyday lives is ALWAYS awesome. I mean, what's the point of geometry otherwise? Those weird shapes on the formula sheet are everywhere; finding them, measuring them, and making use of them is fun. What am I nervous about?
I might be worried my lesson is not compelling enough for a camera, for the donors and auditors and state officials and recruiters that will likely see that document. I might be worried the students will act out and not take it seriously. I worry that my description of the work is too reductive or too complicated. I am worried, and I can't shake it.
I look for features to measure and I find them. I give a group the task of measuring the perimeter of LHS's gigantic cafeteria ("¡Dios mío, Mister!"). Another group I tell to measure the volume of one of the gigantic columns in the cafeteria. Finally, I instruct a group to measure the area of one of the lamps hanging on the wall above them. And one by one, the groups start unraveling just as the cameraman asks me for a quick description of who I am and what I'm doing. I have to put the mike down and give quick clarifying instructions, but they work. I set the record straight on perimeter (the length outside of the object, and yes, even the turns and corners). I instruct the students measuring the column to estimate (measure another wall?!). To measure the lamp, find an object of similar size (the students put their hands on the seats below them). They get there slowly, but surely. The group measuring the light gets done quickly, so along comes a reward: measure the area of the table, which is the shape of an ellipse. They're flummoxed, until I hear a key word: estimate. The perimeter group is counting off lengths in 85 foot increments with a long tape measure. The column group does their best to count bricks, but quickly lose count because the ceiling of the cafeteria is so high.
--------------------------------------------------------
When I see an administrator or a visitor, I tell my students to "make me look good". I say it in jest, but it is another sentiment I know all students get. Teacher performance is linked to student performance, and with good reason. Teachers, administrators, schools...education is nothing without our students. We have every incentive as teachers to drive our students to succeed with all of our might and energy.
However, I don't think we see the other side of the street. Our students have a responsibility to us to succeed. This is where I have caught people off guard with a point of view that I feel goes against the grain in many places and in many ways. I said it once, and I'll say it a million times: students owe it to not only themselves to succeed; they owe it to every single one of us. You, me, their parents and neighbors, their teachers, school leaders...fill in the blanks.
Why do I feel this way? Why do I rest so much responsibility on my students? Because education is a collective effort. If my students succeed, I succeed. If my students fail, I fail. Simple. The success of our students is the only goal. Therefore, everyone in education works toward the same goal, period.
I don't think this is a reason to put undue pressure on students to succeed at any cost without our help or assistance. I think it's more about changing mindset: we're here to see you succeed, and we'll pay any cost, if that is what the goal requires. Some students require very little help, and for those students, our hard work only elevates their further success and pushes them higher. Some students require all the help they can get, and when it's there, and when students succeed, we develop the mindset, as communities, that the success of our students is not only preferable, but required of all of us.
--------------------------------------------------------
I closed my classes with a simple message on Day 3: we're over the hump. The finish line is in sight, but we're not letting up, because the goal is not to finish the week. The goal is to pass the MCAS and graduate. Passing that exam might mean mountains for my students. It might mean the difference between a job or no job, the chance to go to further school or not, and the chance for their children to have a better chance in twenty or more years. If these students succeed, not only will they benefit, but their children will attend schools with teachers who are further galvanized and dedicated to their success, unwilling to accept failure.
It is so important to recognize good student work as a result. I tell my students that they have done great work today, and that I know they know it. One of the administrative assistants in the school asked me for the names of three or four students who have worked hard for all three days. "Three?" I ask her. "Can I give you six?" She says, "if you must." Yes, I must.
Later on, a student asks me what the list was about. I told her honestly. She then asked if she was on the list, and other students also nodded, implying that they wanted to know about themselves, too. I said, "I am not telling you, but I know you know if you are on the list. I can tell by your eyes and by the your voice. You have done great work, all of you. But I need one more good day of work from all of you. It is required." Again, nodding heads. They know. They get it.
------------------------------------------------------
The superintendent of Lawrence Public Schools took us out to dinner in the North End of Boston that night. I had a good time with other Sontag Prize winners, and we talked and networked and enjoyed outstanding Italian food. I talked with people integral to the founding of the program, and I got a chance to talk to the superintendent himself. I told him about my first day and measuring the stairwell, and he responded, "18 centimeters per step, I remember." He was watching. He remembered. I told him that I have never experienced an environment like this one, and that I needed to. I told him I felt like it was required of me. Then he gave me a compliment I'll never forget.
"Well, I'm glad you're here. Keep doing good work for our kids."
Our kids. I don't have to work for LPS for them to be our kids. That compliment and that handshake means more to me now than all of the prizes combined.
He gets it. And I'm trying like hell to get it.
Now, I can say with certainty that I didn't get it, and I need to get over it. I'm working on it this week, because 'Mister' is all I hear. My last name is hard for some to pronounce, especially for people whose languages don't have those sorts of letter patterns (Dudley is even hard for some English speakers to pronounce).
There is a lot that I think we think we understand as teachers. We think we understand poverty and lack of access to resources. We think we understand power and privilege and prestige. We think we understand student achievement, and the power of language, and the importance of speaking the right one. In the ELL professional development sessions, we think we understand how to help students who have to fight to learn English and the content we teach in the same setting, especially when it's the expression we value, almost more than the content itself.
Andover and Lawrence are interesting neighbors. One is a poor, old mill town, a meeting of immigrants for over a century. At the Claddagh Pub race in February, the mayor of Lawrence said that it is a city of immigrants; always has been, always will be. Andover, however, is different. It is on a big hill, far above Lawrence. Andover has money, and it shows. Kept lawns. Nice houses. New buildings. Phillips Academy. New school buses and police cars. Newly paved streets free of potholes after this brutal winter. Data showing a population of 231 millionaires and one of the highest median incomes in the state and in the region.
I went to lunch at Chipotle in Andover yesterday. To get to Chipotle, I get off of I-93 and head south off of exit 42a, up a huge hill. Lawrence High School is in the opposite direction. I can see it on the hill, far off in the distance. I go in and order, and after I pay for my food, I notice immediately how white Chipotle is. Socially responsible food. Modern decor. Recycled paper napkins that tell you they're recycled paper napkins. Every single worker behind the counter speaks Spanish, and every last diner is white.
I can say this with certainty: we don't get it. Any of it. At all.
I didn't get it. I still don't.
----------------------------------------------
There is one thing I do get, though: "Mister, I'm tired."
I heard that a lot today, our day on geometry. A whole formula sheet of shapes, figures, letters, numbers, conversion factors, terms, turns of phrase (I mean, come on, a right rectangular prism is a goddamned BOX). Just looking at that sheet could make a person's eyes cross. And I'm not doing drill on this. No way.
So out we go. Meter sticks in hand, a hundred-foot tape measure. Out of the classroom for the third straight day.
There are spheres outside of the school. Find the surface area. Find the volume. Don't forget the units. The what? The units. The thing on the number that tells you how you're measuring.
Go to break. Come back from break. Head back out...then, I'm stopped by a man with a camera. "Hi," he says, and introduces himself. "Are you Mr... Mr..."
"Dudley. Yes, I'm Mr. Dudley."
"I'm told you're one of the teachers I have to see. You're on my list."
Great. They're here to film me.
-----------------------------------------------
I have stopped being nervous about being watched. I love it when people see me teach. I want feedback because I want to improve and something can always be improved. This time, though, I'm very nervous. What am I nervous about? Looking for the geometry that exists in our everyday lives is ALWAYS awesome. I mean, what's the point of geometry otherwise? Those weird shapes on the formula sheet are everywhere; finding them, measuring them, and making use of them is fun. What am I nervous about?
I might be worried my lesson is not compelling enough for a camera, for the donors and auditors and state officials and recruiters that will likely see that document. I might be worried the students will act out and not take it seriously. I worry that my description of the work is too reductive or too complicated. I am worried, and I can't shake it.
I look for features to measure and I find them. I give a group the task of measuring the perimeter of LHS's gigantic cafeteria ("¡Dios mío, Mister!"). Another group I tell to measure the volume of one of the gigantic columns in the cafeteria. Finally, I instruct a group to measure the area of one of the lamps hanging on the wall above them. And one by one, the groups start unraveling just as the cameraman asks me for a quick description of who I am and what I'm doing. I have to put the mike down and give quick clarifying instructions, but they work. I set the record straight on perimeter (the length outside of the object, and yes, even the turns and corners). I instruct the students measuring the column to estimate (measure another wall?!). To measure the lamp, find an object of similar size (the students put their hands on the seats below them). They get there slowly, but surely. The group measuring the light gets done quickly, so along comes a reward: measure the area of the table, which is the shape of an ellipse. They're flummoxed, until I hear a key word: estimate. The perimeter group is counting off lengths in 85 foot increments with a long tape measure. The column group does their best to count bricks, but quickly lose count because the ceiling of the cafeteria is so high.
--------------------------------------------------------
When I see an administrator or a visitor, I tell my students to "make me look good". I say it in jest, but it is another sentiment I know all students get. Teacher performance is linked to student performance, and with good reason. Teachers, administrators, schools...education is nothing without our students. We have every incentive as teachers to drive our students to succeed with all of our might and energy.
However, I don't think we see the other side of the street. Our students have a responsibility to us to succeed. This is where I have caught people off guard with a point of view that I feel goes against the grain in many places and in many ways. I said it once, and I'll say it a million times: students owe it to not only themselves to succeed; they owe it to every single one of us. You, me, their parents and neighbors, their teachers, school leaders...fill in the blanks.
Why do I feel this way? Why do I rest so much responsibility on my students? Because education is a collective effort. If my students succeed, I succeed. If my students fail, I fail. Simple. The success of our students is the only goal. Therefore, everyone in education works toward the same goal, period.
I don't think this is a reason to put undue pressure on students to succeed at any cost without our help or assistance. I think it's more about changing mindset: we're here to see you succeed, and we'll pay any cost, if that is what the goal requires. Some students require very little help, and for those students, our hard work only elevates their further success and pushes them higher. Some students require all the help they can get, and when it's there, and when students succeed, we develop the mindset, as communities, that the success of our students is not only preferable, but required of all of us.
--------------------------------------------------------
I closed my classes with a simple message on Day 3: we're over the hump. The finish line is in sight, but we're not letting up, because the goal is not to finish the week. The goal is to pass the MCAS and graduate. Passing that exam might mean mountains for my students. It might mean the difference between a job or no job, the chance to go to further school or not, and the chance for their children to have a better chance in twenty or more years. If these students succeed, not only will they benefit, but their children will attend schools with teachers who are further galvanized and dedicated to their success, unwilling to accept failure.
It is so important to recognize good student work as a result. I tell my students that they have done great work today, and that I know they know it. One of the administrative assistants in the school asked me for the names of three or four students who have worked hard for all three days. "Three?" I ask her. "Can I give you six?" She says, "if you must." Yes, I must.
Later on, a student asks me what the list was about. I told her honestly. She then asked if she was on the list, and other students also nodded, implying that they wanted to know about themselves, too. I said, "I am not telling you, but I know you know if you are on the list. I can tell by your eyes and by the your voice. You have done great work, all of you. But I need one more good day of work from all of you. It is required." Again, nodding heads. They know. They get it.
------------------------------------------------------
The superintendent of Lawrence Public Schools took us out to dinner in the North End of Boston that night. I had a good time with other Sontag Prize winners, and we talked and networked and enjoyed outstanding Italian food. I talked with people integral to the founding of the program, and I got a chance to talk to the superintendent himself. I told him about my first day and measuring the stairwell, and he responded, "18 centimeters per step, I remember." He was watching. He remembered. I told him that I have never experienced an environment like this one, and that I needed to. I told him I felt like it was required of me. Then he gave me a compliment I'll never forget.
"Well, I'm glad you're here. Keep doing good work for our kids."
Our kids. I don't have to work for LPS for them to be our kids. That compliment and that handshake means more to me now than all of the prizes combined.
He gets it. And I'm trying like hell to get it.
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