How the STEM Project Died: Leadership, Core Values, and Innovation
I'll never forget how I felt before I had to present the core ideas behind our STEM Project to the academic council, a group of the school's eight department chairs and the academic dean. It felt final. I was nervous, sure, but I wasn't tense or anxious, I wasn't scared. I just knew it was final and that it was up to me to give my best pitch to these nine people.
What preceded this presentation was a flurry of panic. Questions about our STEM Project, a cohort of 30 kids working in a competency-based classroom setting without bells, self-paced, with project-based and interdisciplinary assessments, weren't coming from a place of curiosity but instead from a place of vitriol. How could we justify getting three periods to work with kids when other teachers have to work in five? What if you die on the way into work and no one else can teach this? Why do other kids get 135 minutes to work on content when other kids get 45? Why are you advocating for a system where kids can cheat? Why are you discouraging kids from taking art or foreign language? (These questions had all been addressed, but never mind. At that point it didn't matter.)
It's sad to say this on reflection: I knew, going into that presentation, that the STEM Project was going to die. My job in the presentation, then, was to expose the anger and panic we had seen in questions that came our way for what it really was: fear. That is precisely what happened: the expressions weren't accusatory questions, but instead worries: I'm worried about what happens to my department. I'm worried about equity. I'm worried about creating cliques. I'm worried about achievement.
---------------------------------
One day prior, I was at a retreat for a leadership cohort I am currently enrolled in. We met at Holderness School in Holderness, New Hampshire, on one of the rainiest days of winter I had ever seen. At that meeting, I had a chance to tell the whole story to independent school leaders from all over the region, who were aghast at how it had all gone down. The lack of communication and leadership. The brazen enrollment-driven motivation for innovation. The gut-wrench, knee-jerk reaction. The vacuum of guidance for what innovation in our school was meant to achieve.
They all wished me luck and wished me well. They told me I should let them know how it goes, but I haven't had the heart to tell them yet.
The presenter of the day was Hans Mundahl, the head of school at Sant Bani School in Sanbornton, New Hampshire. It is the kind of school I want my daughter to attend. Kids backpacking and playing soccer. The introductory video being a one-minute snapshot of the true life of the school. No screens for kids under fifth grade. Bright open spaces. Leaves in the fall.
Hans is a true innovator; you can see he wears it and bears it. He told us the story of his school, an environmentally-conscious, K-8 day school where outdoor education and community connection is central to everything they do. In his presentation, he gave one of the most powerful musings on innovation I have ever heard, and it stuck to my bones and my heart and my soul.
He argued that every innovation is on a hype cycle. The "Next Big Thing" always rides up to a Peak of Inflated Expectations, falls into a Trough of Disillusionment, and then eventually rises to flatline, a Plateau of Productivity. He illustrated where he thought several innovations fell on this spectrum: Google Glass, Microsoft Office, the iPad, things like that. Central to his talk was technological innovation, but he argued this phenomenological framework could be applied to any innovation.
Moving forward, I thought he was going to make a blanket-statement, cliche innovation claim, so I almost wasn't listening when Hans put his next slides forward. I flailed in breaking open my pen pouch to write down what was coming next. His next argument was simple, straight-forward, and powerful, so much so that I scrawled three questions from his slideshow on the front of a brand-new notebook I had just purchased.
Hans asked a simple question at the beginning of the slideshow, and then again near the end: what is the next big thing? His answer is that there is no next big thing. There are hundreds of next big things now. More than we can ever count or anticipate. So, rather than pounce on the Next Big Thing, rather than innovate in a blind and reactionary way, we should ask ourselves three simple questions:
1. What do you hold to be true?
2. How do you live it out?
3. Why does it matter?
After that presentation, I felt forced to answer those questions for myself, because I don't think I've ever really done that.
---------------------------------
The STEM Project is dead. A few days after the academic council presentation, our academic dean had a meeting in his office, where we were told just to "stop the thing". This edict came from my head of school, who didn't know we were "still doing that", and that the innovation was "no longer necessary" because enrollment was on target. (The entire point of innovating, we were reminded, was to bring the school more students.) At that point, I asked my academic dean: What were you looking for in these innovations? Why weren't our innovations asked to coincide with an examination of our school's values? How did such a knee-jerk reaction to the 2016 dip in enrollment come about? I didn't just get an unsatisfactory answer. I got no answer.
It was difficult to walk out of the meeting knowing that a project on which I had spent 18 months of my professional life is now locked away on Google Drive (out of the school's ownership, I might add). It was difficult for one simple reason: I felt like my professional core was in that project, and that project had been rejected. So I took some much needed time for self-care. I went dancing at the Snow Ball in Peterborough and connected with my good friend Saera and spilled my guts to her about it in a way that was positive and therapeutic. I played chess in a quiet place away from bustle with two US Chess tournament directors I deeply respect and connected with competing again. I used the calm weather as a chance to begin walking Meredith to school again. I stopped worrying about the work I was doing and started wondering about myself and where I was.
--------------------------------
After this post I'm going to post my answers to the three questions posted above. Thinking about these three things has been an amazing meditation. It has also led me to the hard question of what to do: I'm in a place where there are some extraordinary benefits and shelters, but that flatly rejects and contradicts my core values. That's a problem for another day. In the meantime, maybe I'll simply invite you to think about this along with me. If you're game, get out a notebook and a nice pen that makes your handwriting look stellar. Open up a word document and set it to your favorite font. Answer these three questions as best you can:
What do you hold to be true?
How do you live it out?
Why does it matter?
What preceded this presentation was a flurry of panic. Questions about our STEM Project, a cohort of 30 kids working in a competency-based classroom setting without bells, self-paced, with project-based and interdisciplinary assessments, weren't coming from a place of curiosity but instead from a place of vitriol. How could we justify getting three periods to work with kids when other teachers have to work in five? What if you die on the way into work and no one else can teach this? Why do other kids get 135 minutes to work on content when other kids get 45? Why are you advocating for a system where kids can cheat? Why are you discouraging kids from taking art or foreign language? (These questions had all been addressed, but never mind. At that point it didn't matter.)
It's sad to say this on reflection: I knew, going into that presentation, that the STEM Project was going to die. My job in the presentation, then, was to expose the anger and panic we had seen in questions that came our way for what it really was: fear. That is precisely what happened: the expressions weren't accusatory questions, but instead worries: I'm worried about what happens to my department. I'm worried about equity. I'm worried about creating cliques. I'm worried about achievement.
---------------------------------
One day prior, I was at a retreat for a leadership cohort I am currently enrolled in. We met at Holderness School in Holderness, New Hampshire, on one of the rainiest days of winter I had ever seen. At that meeting, I had a chance to tell the whole story to independent school leaders from all over the region, who were aghast at how it had all gone down. The lack of communication and leadership. The brazen enrollment-driven motivation for innovation. The gut-wrench, knee-jerk reaction. The vacuum of guidance for what innovation in our school was meant to achieve.
They all wished me luck and wished me well. They told me I should let them know how it goes, but I haven't had the heart to tell them yet.
The presenter of the day was Hans Mundahl, the head of school at Sant Bani School in Sanbornton, New Hampshire. It is the kind of school I want my daughter to attend. Kids backpacking and playing soccer. The introductory video being a one-minute snapshot of the true life of the school. No screens for kids under fifth grade. Bright open spaces. Leaves in the fall.
Hans is a true innovator; you can see he wears it and bears it. He told us the story of his school, an environmentally-conscious, K-8 day school where outdoor education and community connection is central to everything they do. In his presentation, he gave one of the most powerful musings on innovation I have ever heard, and it stuck to my bones and my heart and my soul.
He argued that every innovation is on a hype cycle. The "Next Big Thing" always rides up to a Peak of Inflated Expectations, falls into a Trough of Disillusionment, and then eventually rises to flatline, a Plateau of Productivity. He illustrated where he thought several innovations fell on this spectrum: Google Glass, Microsoft Office, the iPad, things like that. Central to his talk was technological innovation, but he argued this phenomenological framework could be applied to any innovation.
Moving forward, I thought he was going to make a blanket-statement, cliche innovation claim, so I almost wasn't listening when Hans put his next slides forward. I flailed in breaking open my pen pouch to write down what was coming next. His next argument was simple, straight-forward, and powerful, so much so that I scrawled three questions from his slideshow on the front of a brand-new notebook I had just purchased.
Hans asked a simple question at the beginning of the slideshow, and then again near the end: what is the next big thing? His answer is that there is no next big thing. There are hundreds of next big things now. More than we can ever count or anticipate. So, rather than pounce on the Next Big Thing, rather than innovate in a blind and reactionary way, we should ask ourselves three simple questions:
1. What do you hold to be true?
2. How do you live it out?
3. Why does it matter?
After that presentation, I felt forced to answer those questions for myself, because I don't think I've ever really done that.
---------------------------------
The STEM Project is dead. A few days after the academic council presentation, our academic dean had a meeting in his office, where we were told just to "stop the thing". This edict came from my head of school, who didn't know we were "still doing that", and that the innovation was "no longer necessary" because enrollment was on target. (The entire point of innovating, we were reminded, was to bring the school more students.) At that point, I asked my academic dean: What were you looking for in these innovations? Why weren't our innovations asked to coincide with an examination of our school's values? How did such a knee-jerk reaction to the 2016 dip in enrollment come about? I didn't just get an unsatisfactory answer. I got no answer.
It was difficult to walk out of the meeting knowing that a project on which I had spent 18 months of my professional life is now locked away on Google Drive (out of the school's ownership, I might add). It was difficult for one simple reason: I felt like my professional core was in that project, and that project had been rejected. So I took some much needed time for self-care. I went dancing at the Snow Ball in Peterborough and connected with my good friend Saera and spilled my guts to her about it in a way that was positive and therapeutic. I played chess in a quiet place away from bustle with two US Chess tournament directors I deeply respect and connected with competing again. I used the calm weather as a chance to begin walking Meredith to school again. I stopped worrying about the work I was doing and started wondering about myself and where I was.
--------------------------------
After this post I'm going to post my answers to the three questions posted above. Thinking about these three things has been an amazing meditation. It has also led me to the hard question of what to do: I'm in a place where there are some extraordinary benefits and shelters, but that flatly rejects and contradicts my core values. That's a problem for another day. In the meantime, maybe I'll simply invite you to think about this along with me. If you're game, get out a notebook and a nice pen that makes your handwriting look stellar. Open up a word document and set it to your favorite font. Answer these three questions as best you can:
What do you hold to be true?
How do you live it out?
Why does it matter?
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