Promise
For the first time that I can recall, I was quoted in a yearbook.
Every year, seniors across the country construct entries called senior quotes in their school's yearbooks. The majority of this space is taken by an image of their countenance, along with a perfunctory list of the things they have done that are not curricular. Then, tucked away at the end of the text is a quote. These quotes range from the snarky to the clever, from people as lofty as Gandhi and Curie and Lennon and Austen, to the close-to-home quality of a profound self-quote or the pining of an anonymous soul.
Today, I was looking through a yearbook that a student had left in my room. There wasn't a name indicating ownership that I could see, so I looked through the senior quotes. The snarky: "Don't let schooling get in the way of your education." The clever: "Just when I discovered the meaning of life, they changed it." The self-quote: "I like chemistry." The anonymous quote: "Kindness is the greatest wisdom."
Then, there's me.
Sitting as a student's senior quote: "Promise. Deliver. Nothing less." Four words I said to that student after he told me he was going to bail on a chess tournament he said he would go to.
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In eleven years of teaching, I've likely taught more than a thousand kids. I feel like I've got something to offer every student that comes through my door on that first day. For the high flyers, an intellectual challenge. For those who struggle with math or science, a chance to sharpen skills and really see what it's all for. For those interested in a career in a STEM field, the credentials to start, to get in the door, to have the playing field leveled for them. For those uninterested in such a pursuit, the practical insight to make a class like physics or calculus usefully worthwhile, while getting to hear it told like a fascinating story (and they are). For all students, the construction of a place where they can be themselves, where they can learn without feeling at risk, where they are welcome and cared for.
This is the promise of education. It is the promise that the work we bring is of use to the students in our charge on terms they dictate. It is the promise that no student will ever sit in our classes wondering what they'll need this for (several possible answers: the insight to survive driving in a snowstorm, the confidence grown from navigating a projectile motion lab, the bridge between Algebra II and successful prediction of crossing cars, the mastery needed to turn a C in college physics into an A). It's the guarantee that the time you'll have with them is worthwhile on a level that speaks to them. It is the promise that they'll be an active part of this pursuit, rather than a passive pawn in it.
The delivery, though. Aye, there's the rub: delivery is the yang to the yin that is promise. It can't be just any delivery anymore. We can't just stand at the front of the room and sermonize and proselytize. We can't just hand kids instructions and ask them to fill in blanks or answer questions whose answers are tantamount to regurgitation. We can't just be dry professionals, working for payday, reducing our work to a mechanized routine. We have to be adaptive, empathetic, sensitive.
We have to be human. How do we do this?
-------------------------
I uttered the words in this senior quote just before the student in question would step up to become the staple of our chess team. If I recall correctly, he would inevitably go to the tournament he thought he'd bail on and tie for second in his section. Then, he would win two games, draw one game, and lose one game in another tournament in preparation for the Team Scholastic States. At States, he would notch a perfect 4-0 performance and help our team place fourth in the state out of 12 teams. In this stretch, he would score 11 points out of 15 games (10 wins, 2 draws, 3 losses). Good play, considering that he had not won a game of rated chess since elementary school.
After his perfect performance at Team States, a few of the chess club members hung around while waiting for a ride. I waited with them, because I cannot stand the thought of kids being left without rides. The student I'm talking about ambled around for a bit before sitting down to the piano in the Memorial Union at the University of Maine. He played beautifully. He clearly knew how to gently play the instrument, and the tune he spun out of that box of strings and keys filled the empty building like the quiet tracks humming out of the speakers in a nice restaurant. "I didn't know you played the piano," I said to him.
"That's because I don't tell anybody."
"Why don't you tell anybody?"
"Because I hate playing the piano. I only do it because my parents make me do it."
"Then why are you playing it now?"
"It's better than silence."
Later, he would intimate to me that he also hated chess. He hated playing, and he hated losing, and he eventually came to hate winning. I asked him again what he did it for.
"I did it for the people. For the feeling that I was a part of something. The friends."
-----------------------
It is easy to underestimate the value of belonging. It is especially easy to underestimate how much belonging matters to kids. In my view, we teachers sometimes think of classes as gaggles of kids seated in rows and columns, and they are until we allow them to be what they really are. When classes or groups are allowed to find their own identities, bonds form. A tenor and a feel begin to set in. A natural rapport is cultivated, and a flow is established. In October, it starts to feel wrong when kids are gone. The need for mechanized structure is replaced by a sense of shared purpose. Inside jokes are traded. A healthy amount of grief becomes the new currency. Smiling is easy. Kids feel at ease, and prove it when they pounce on small mistakes or ask pointed, meaningful questions, unafraid of how they sound to us, the so-called "experts". They show you their moments of vulnerability, like when the stress of school becomes too much to handle, or when the raw emotions of conflict or loss are too hard to understand.
They succeed, and therefore, you succeed.
They trust you, and you trust them.
Promise. Deliver. Nothing less.
----------------------
The student I've talked about is going to school in upstate New York next fall. He will not be joining his school's chess team.
Every year, seniors across the country construct entries called senior quotes in their school's yearbooks. The majority of this space is taken by an image of their countenance, along with a perfunctory list of the things they have done that are not curricular. Then, tucked away at the end of the text is a quote. These quotes range from the snarky to the clever, from people as lofty as Gandhi and Curie and Lennon and Austen, to the close-to-home quality of a profound self-quote or the pining of an anonymous soul.
Today, I was looking through a yearbook that a student had left in my room. There wasn't a name indicating ownership that I could see, so I looked through the senior quotes. The snarky: "Don't let schooling get in the way of your education." The clever: "Just when I discovered the meaning of life, they changed it." The self-quote: "I like chemistry." The anonymous quote: "Kindness is the greatest wisdom."
Then, there's me.
Sitting as a student's senior quote: "Promise. Deliver. Nothing less." Four words I said to that student after he told me he was going to bail on a chess tournament he said he would go to.
-------------------------
In eleven years of teaching, I've likely taught more than a thousand kids. I feel like I've got something to offer every student that comes through my door on that first day. For the high flyers, an intellectual challenge. For those who struggle with math or science, a chance to sharpen skills and really see what it's all for. For those interested in a career in a STEM field, the credentials to start, to get in the door, to have the playing field leveled for them. For those uninterested in such a pursuit, the practical insight to make a class like physics or calculus usefully worthwhile, while getting to hear it told like a fascinating story (and they are). For all students, the construction of a place where they can be themselves, where they can learn without feeling at risk, where they are welcome and cared for.
This is the promise of education. It is the promise that the work we bring is of use to the students in our charge on terms they dictate. It is the promise that no student will ever sit in our classes wondering what they'll need this for (several possible answers: the insight to survive driving in a snowstorm, the confidence grown from navigating a projectile motion lab, the bridge between Algebra II and successful prediction of crossing cars, the mastery needed to turn a C in college physics into an A). It's the guarantee that the time you'll have with them is worthwhile on a level that speaks to them. It is the promise that they'll be an active part of this pursuit, rather than a passive pawn in it.
The delivery, though. Aye, there's the rub: delivery is the yang to the yin that is promise. It can't be just any delivery anymore. We can't just stand at the front of the room and sermonize and proselytize. We can't just hand kids instructions and ask them to fill in blanks or answer questions whose answers are tantamount to regurgitation. We can't just be dry professionals, working for payday, reducing our work to a mechanized routine. We have to be adaptive, empathetic, sensitive.
We have to be human. How do we do this?
-------------------------
I uttered the words in this senior quote just before the student in question would step up to become the staple of our chess team. If I recall correctly, he would inevitably go to the tournament he thought he'd bail on and tie for second in his section. Then, he would win two games, draw one game, and lose one game in another tournament in preparation for the Team Scholastic States. At States, he would notch a perfect 4-0 performance and help our team place fourth in the state out of 12 teams. In this stretch, he would score 11 points out of 15 games (10 wins, 2 draws, 3 losses). Good play, considering that he had not won a game of rated chess since elementary school.
After his perfect performance at Team States, a few of the chess club members hung around while waiting for a ride. I waited with them, because I cannot stand the thought of kids being left without rides. The student I'm talking about ambled around for a bit before sitting down to the piano in the Memorial Union at the University of Maine. He played beautifully. He clearly knew how to gently play the instrument, and the tune he spun out of that box of strings and keys filled the empty building like the quiet tracks humming out of the speakers in a nice restaurant. "I didn't know you played the piano," I said to him.
"That's because I don't tell anybody."
"Why don't you tell anybody?"
"Because I hate playing the piano. I only do it because my parents make me do it."
"Then why are you playing it now?"
"It's better than silence."
Later, he would intimate to me that he also hated chess. He hated playing, and he hated losing, and he eventually came to hate winning. I asked him again what he did it for.
"I did it for the people. For the feeling that I was a part of something. The friends."
-----------------------
It is easy to underestimate the value of belonging. It is especially easy to underestimate how much belonging matters to kids. In my view, we teachers sometimes think of classes as gaggles of kids seated in rows and columns, and they are until we allow them to be what they really are. When classes or groups are allowed to find their own identities, bonds form. A tenor and a feel begin to set in. A natural rapport is cultivated, and a flow is established. In October, it starts to feel wrong when kids are gone. The need for mechanized structure is replaced by a sense of shared purpose. Inside jokes are traded. A healthy amount of grief becomes the new currency. Smiling is easy. Kids feel at ease, and prove it when they pounce on small mistakes or ask pointed, meaningful questions, unafraid of how they sound to us, the so-called "experts". They show you their moments of vulnerability, like when the stress of school becomes too much to handle, or when the raw emotions of conflict or loss are too hard to understand.
They succeed, and therefore, you succeed.
They trust you, and you trust them.
Promise. Deliver. Nothing less.
----------------------
The student I've talked about is going to school in upstate New York next fall. He will not be joining his school's chess team.
Duds, you have officially (in my eyes) entered the Teacher Pantheon. I dearly love this. And you.
ReplyDeleteAnon