I always assume that people act with good intentions. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I think it’s easier to foster conversation that way. I tend to be a “flip it” and a “let’s take a look at this from a different perspective” kind of person. 

Right now, teaching is hard. It’s just as hard as all of the tweets, videos, and memes portray it to be. Despite the uphill battle, we are powering through like the kindness warriors and educational badasses that we are. 

So when I see stuff like this, I remember that this teaching thing — whether in-person or online or a mix of both — isn’t a one-size-fits-all enterprise.  It’s all very much a matter of reading the room (or screens or chat or emoji or Bitmoji or avatar or reactions or email) that’s in front of you.

Yet with all of these methods of communication at our disposal, why is it so hard to send the right message? We have so many choices that I think we get overwhelmed and caught up in the stress of choosing one. And truthfully, I think this applies to our students as well. “Which platform do I use, and with which teacher, and in which class, and which rules are in play?” I can only imagine the questions swirling through their heads because I’m still trying to sort out my own.

As I said at the outset, I can only operate on the assumption that people mean well, so I would imagine that attempts like the one below are nothing more than good faith efforts to teach kids about decorum. The thing is — is that really where we should be exerting our energy and focusing our attention right now?

That’s why I’m going to be transparent and make every effort to keep my message simple. See, what I really want is just for my kids to show up. That’s all. After stumbling upon a myriad of “online meeting rules,” I (half-) jokingly confided to a friend that my primary hope is that my students feel comfortable coming to class. And I want them to be dressed — that’s an important detail in case they wish to show themselves on screen. It may seem like a low standard, but I think it’s asking more than we realize for what some of our students are up against. All of the rules that imply sitting at some palatial desk with carefully curated school supplies in a quiet house with no distractions seems awfully unrealistic to me. As an adult who runs a household, I can tell you that I can’t manage to make that happen. It turns out, my first grader had a horrible showing for much of her first week of school until we decided to do away with the common practice of using a chair and let her sit under the dining room table. Something about that intrigued her and suddenly made the whole thing more palatable.  Do I care that it’s an unconventional choice? Not one bit and neither does her teacher because — like me — she just wants her to be there and to participate in whatever way makes her comfortable. 

So popular things like this have sparked a ton of debate.  Is there a time and place for formality? Absolutely. Is that time right now while we’re all struggling just to show up? I really don’t believe so. My inbox is flooded with emails — more than ever before. Do I need a ton of text to comb through to get to the heart of my students’ messages? Definitely not. I’m someone who appreciates brevity, clarity, and succinctness. Maybe it’s the math teacher in me. I mean, just recently, I was struggling to write a letter of recommendation because I couldn’t break out of the formal constraints and find my natural voice. Everything I wrote — my thoughts, my impressions of a student I know well and think highly of — it just didn’t sound like me and it was all wrong.  I imagine that the imposition of rules like that make it hard for students to find and share theirs, too. And even though they reserve the right to mute themselves, I don’t want to be the one who pushes that button for them. 

To me, it’s about making connections and keeping doors open. Messages like that can be a mountain to climb for some kids or — worse — it could be a dead end. I don’t want that. Ever. I can model good practice in how I interact with kids. A colleague shared these templates, which provided an easy way to send a message, check in, and open the lines of communication. They’re a good start. I had recently given my classes an assignment that included an email exchange. Many chose to just send a screenshot, and, honestly, I was cool with that. I responded to each and every one so they knew it was received and read. There were a few that I flagged so I could thank students for their willing participation in class. I was genuine and told them how much it meant to me.  That was an important revelation because I don’t know if they realize that we’re struggling too. I’m not afraid to tell them. When I sent my messages, I received reassuringly heartfelt replies, and that meant the world to me. It represented everything I’ve been hoping for: connection; a desire to show up. That’s really all I wanted.  If I followed those “rules” I referenced earlier, I might’ve possibly disregarded their email or called them out for their lack of adherence to the traditional norms of correspondence. I would have pressed the mute button.

So far, I have one class that’s been far more difficult to establish a connection with than the others. I was almost at the point of taking a more traditional route than the slightly different, more interactive, path I’d carved out. Fortunately, my co-teacher convinced me to stay the course and give them another try. After starting another class period in which we didn’t mandate that students turn on their cameras (in case you’re resolutely on team “cameras on all the time,” I encourage you to read this) or force them to unmute, a student pointedly asked if my hosting capabilities gave me the power to remotely control their microphones and cameras. I showed him that I couldn’t do that, and more importantly, reassured him that I wouldn’t even if I could. It was at that point when we stopped the lesson and had a real conversation — a genuine heart to heart. We told them that this whole business of virtual learning is hard for us like it is for them.  It isn’t perfect and the environment makes it difficult to discern how they feel and what they understand.  Once upon a time, we were able to scan the room and take account of facial expressions and body language. It’s not so easy now. We need their feedback. Their honest feedback. We don’t want them to say what we want to hear; we want to hear what’s real, in any format — video, audio, or text. It doesn’t matter. And the reason why we keep asking…is that we want them to succeed. We don’t want them just to “get by,” but to thrive. I know — it sounds like one of those “Oh captain, my captain” moments, right? Well, it didn’t exactly have that effect. The silence was deafening. I mean, there were crickets. I couldn’t tell if the vast majority of kids had logged in and walked away from their screens or if they heard everything we said and were quietly processing it all. But that’s a pitfall we have to deal with right now because not everything is like it is in the movies. Sometimes things aren’t scripted to be an action-packed 80 minutes. Real life can move at a more glacial pace, and that’s what was happening. It was all playing out in its own time, and the next class went better with a few more cameras turned on and a few less microphones muted. Everyone used the chat. The flow became infinitely better, and I’ve decided that I’m okay with slow and steady.

Sometimes, we just have to be willing to change our expectations. Those small adjustments can help us embrace what we get, and it may even end up being better than we’d hoped. Occasionally, we just have to ask. To that effect, this is a form I’m going to try next week.

Ultimately, though — whatever we do, wherever we’re teaching and learning from, and whatever we’re trying to achieve — we have to be mindful of the messages we send.

I’m struggling.

I’ve been doing this gig for over a decade and a half and everything got flipped-turned upside down, and there is no auntie and uncle in Bel-Air.

I started class with a song from 1999 with some powerful lyrics as kids entered the classroom.  Big flop.  Sorry, Des’ree.

I forgot to let kids into class.  They texted other students to tell me. ***facepalm***

I played “Getting to Know You” Bingo.  To quote one student, “Mrs. S. This is hella awkward.”

And those are just the top three faux pas. My child and dog may have made appearances during the very first minute of my live classes, and FlipGrid, a platform I was using to get to know everyone, might have crashed.

But this isn’t meant to be a pity party. I’m just trying to keep it real.
The problem with those well-intentioned plans that went awry is that I was reaching. They looked great and they seemed like something the kids would like, but as it turned out, they didn’t. And with good reason. The reason they didn’t work out is because they simply weren’t me. I am not a door watcher.  I don’t typically play music as students enter. I’m not much for Bingo either. 

“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet
voice at the end of the day saying, “I will try again tomorrow.”

― Mary Anne Radmacher

So I stopped the music upon entry and, instead, I’m taking requests. I set up the doorbell notification in Zoom to alert me that students need to gain access to the classroom so that I don’t accidentally keep them waiting, and I have been more transparent with my classes about how there’s a learning curve here for me too, which is what makes their feedback all the more valuable. I found a way to connect with the kids that’s more true to me.

At our first faculty meeting of the year, my principal played a Tim McGraw song, Here on Earth, and he asked us to think about that very question — why we are here? I’ll admit that at that moment, I wondered sarcastically if it was to endure the back-to-school in-service activities that always seem to pull us from our teeming to-do lists; however, if I give the question the more serious consideration it deserves, then I really believe that the reason I’m here is to support others. I’m not a limelight seeker, and I feel strongly that it takes every kind of person to make this thing called life work — those who want to stand center stage and those who are running around behind the scenes. I’m the stage hand. If sports metaphors are more your thing, then maybe I’m not the flashy high profile infielder, but I’m the versatile utility player who comes in to play defense in order to shore up the team’s chances to win. Any way you want to frame it, I like to think that I help other people shine.

Keeping that in mind, I started to focus on being true to me and I decided to leave some of the gimmicky stuff behind.  I was honest with my classes, and I explained to them that all I really wanted was to get to know them and for them to get to know each other so we can operate as a team. Together, if we can be more open and communicative and…well…like ourselves, I think we could unlock some amazing things as us.

Speaking of the sum as a whole of its parts, I started Genius Hour again.  I cannot stress enough how amazing this sort of project can be. With a new batch of faces and screens in front of me, I set out to cultivate a new crop of passions.  A short video and a clip from a new Disney Pixar movie, Soul, and I was on my way.

My students asked all of the important questions. Can I study what I want? Yes. It can be anything from school? It can be anything from anywhere and any time. How is this related to math? Leave that to me. You pick the topic and I’ll show you what a ninja math is. It’s beautiful, it’s stealthy, and it’s everywhere.

And boom! There it was. By unleashing their passions, I revealed mine. We’re connecting and meeting with another, and we’re on our way to achieving great things. I’m also working hard to make the course material more meaningful and relatable and important, so, for anyone who teaches classes ranging from math and statistics to politics and sociology, this amazing site could be immensely helpful. “Skew the Script” combines the methodological skills of data analysis with the contextual framework of contemporary social issues. It could not be more relevant or timely — I can’t recommend it highly enough.

At this point, I’d say that I’m prepared for the tough stuff. I’m ready to engage in the real conversations, and I hope my students know it. No more of the “cool” things; just the authentic ones. If I put more of me out there and they follow suit with even just a little bit of them, I’m confident that we’ll be more us.

The Magic 8 Ball. I think this should be the official talisman of 2020.  It’s as close to a crystal ball as we’re likely to find. Let’s imagine the kinds of insight it could offer us right about now…

It’s important to note that most of the responses it offers are favorable, and I believe that’s exactly how we need to look at this year. We’re not sure what awaits us, but if we stop and think about it, the possible outcomes are far more positive than negative. Would we like there to be more certainty and predictability? Absolutely! The thing is — if we don’t get those reassurances, it doesn’t necessarily mean that it’ll all turn out terribly. The unknowns could be even better than we might imagine. What if we embrace all of this unfamiliarity and capitalize on the opportunity to make changes for the better? Yeah…I know. At this point, it’s probably natural to assume that I’ve watched Tiger King too many times during the pandemic and it’s affecting my grip on reality.

You know, it’s funny. Having a positive outlook — ironically enough — usually elicits negative vibes.  People either associate you with unrealistically cheerful cartoon princesses or they assume that there’s some sort of chemical imbalance at work. In my view, though, positivity doesn’t have to entail making all of the negatives disappear.  It’s simply an exercise in perspective. You see and acknowledge the things that need to change, and you use them as motivation to grow. 

This year, my school is employing a behavioral strategy rooted in positive reinforcement. It’s an educational practice adapted from therapeutic programs in marriage counseling. This “4:1” approach exists on the premise that for every corrective statement you make, you should counteract it with something positive — preferably in a ratio of four positive statements to one redirection. When you watch a video or read prepared statements to explain this strategy, it comes off as a bit hokey, flooding your consciousness with those saccharine princess images; however, if you drill down to its essence, it’s about being mindful of how you present yourself and how you relate to others.  Don’t you want put more positivity out there in the universe? Isn’t the goal to build as many positive relationships as you can? It certainly is for me, and if you’re reading this…my suspicion is that it’s yours, too.

As a believer in karma, I feel strongly that the good you put out there comes back around. For example, a colleague of mine wanted to make the most out of an advisory period that’s new to our schedules this year. He’s advising a group of seniors and wants to give them as much support as he possibly can. To that end, he decided to reach out to former students for help and the response has been amazing (74 student responses and counting) — alumni popping up everywhere, eager to drop by his Zoom classroom and paying it forward with tips, tools, and advice that they genuinely wish to impart to a whole new generation of Vikings. He took something unknown and unsettling and turned it into a net positive. What started out as something undefined and potentially awkward may just prove to be a cornerstone of our virtual school community.

The only thing certain about this year is that it’s chock full of uncertainties. I could list them all, but it would be daunting, and — let’s face it — a bit of a downer (and I know you just started mentally listing the pandemic, racial inequities, virtual school, murder hornets, hurricanes…). Instead, I’m choosing to focus on the positive impact I can make going forward, and I’m encouraging you to do the same. The year isn’t going to be perfect, but to be honest, no year ever is. Right at this moment, we have a golden opportunity to shed those lofty, elusive goals of perfection. We can focus on being honest and transparent so that we might really grow with our students. Change is scary, but maintaining the status quo for the sake of it…that’s the stuff nightmares are made of.

So let’s revisit the wisdom of the Magic 8 Ball.

Could this be a revolutionary year? Signs point to yes.

And if you still need a pep talk, give this a watch. Be a Miss Patty. That’s why you got into this gig anyway, right?

Just show up for the kids. Listen to them and everything will be just fine.

There have been many controversial topics, questions, concerns, and fears that have come to light in 2020 (basically you name it and it’s happened — Tiger King and murder hornets, both of which sound fictional at best and horrifying at worst — revealed themselves to be a real thing this year 🤦).  Seriously though, with fears of insidious problems plaguing our communities, from COVID-19 to systemic racism, we need to think about how we can work together to reimagine a new (dare I say the best possible) school. None of the ideas presented below are entirely my own; rather, they are a compilation of suggestions that I have read or listened to while trying to make sense of this situation for myself.  I’ve included my sources at the very end. 

To begin, we have to acknowledge that the well has run dry. So we need a few things.

Community.  We need to talk to parents, kids, and helpful community partners. If we tap into everyone’s unique perspectives, we can think laterally —  outside the box, maybe — and find resources that ensure equity and safety for our families. One such idea is to create a goodwill resource bag, which, just for starters, might contain masks for all of the children in a household, as well as a thermometer.  It could also provide a multi-lingual pamphlet that links resources for housing, food, public health outlets (like COVID-19 testing sites and access to mental healthcare), and how to acquire free or discounted internet connectivity. We could include contact information for reaching out to school district personnel for further assistance or if there are individual concerns or needs that aren’t met by our provisions.

Curriculum.  We need to revisit our academic curriculum for a variety of reasons; however, we need to keep in mind that school as we know it will not (and arguably should not) look the same as it did before the circumstances brought on by the pandemic. Before we proceed with any of this, we need a standard (but not necessarily cookie-cutter) method of rolling out information to the school community and to all of the stakeholders. We need to have a plan in place that enables us to transition from face-to-face instruction to virtual instruction while accounting for all of the variations in between. The plan should be accessible and digestible for students and parents alike. To do this right, though, it’s important to remember that we must take our time. Hasty solutions will only create more problems. We’ll need time to catch-up, both mentally and emotionally. We’ll need time to ensure the safe transmission of our academic content within the confines of our physical spaces. So while we focus on all of those important peripherals, we should also take a long, hard look at the central issue of what it is that we actually teach. Now is a good time to be selective and deliberate in our instruction. We should take care to look at the most important topics, which will afford us the time to create the best activities we can while using the best practices we can find. We need to revisit grading. Feedback is essential, but maybe a letter grade isn’t the best metric right now. Maybe mastery is the way forward or maybe there’s something else entirely that fits better in this time and place.

SEL. If we’ve learned anything from our time away from traditional classrooms, it’s that we absolutely cannot lose sight of the social and emotional well being of students AND staff, nor can we minimize the toll this has taken on all parties involved. Upon our return to school — in whatever shape that takes — students will need a safe place to discuss everything that they’ve been through and to express how they feel and what they might be anticipating as we move on. Perhaps now more than ever, students need school to serve them as a community where they’re welcome to share their thoughts, ideas, and emotions. In other words, it should feel like home. It should be where they can have their voices heard, where they can have check-ins with the people who make them feel safe, and where they feel free to talk about everything from COVID-19 to racism to murder hornets. Nothing should be taken off the table. We must not lose sight of the trauma they’ve incurred and how our role in facilitating an open dialogue is the key to shoring up our community ties as we work simultaneously to break down the barriers that so often divide us.  This all sounds so inviting to me that I believe our schools should invoke the same spirit of home for teachers and staff that they do for the kids. 

Clarity. Everyone needs some clarity right now.  In Pennsylvania, where our COVID-19 reopening plan has been rolled out in “stoplight” phases, each period of lifted restrictions has caused statewide confusion, the most recent one compelling almost the entire commonwealth to begin conflating “green” with “go” to the point that everyone assumes we can now resume our daily routines as we left them back in the second week of March. It turns out, that isn’t exactly what the “green” phase implies and we would all be wise to pump the breaks a bit before blazing through the intersection. Likewise with reopening schools, we ought to know exactly what to expect as we approach a new year. We can’t predict the future, but having some past experience to go on now, it is imperative that the protocol and guidelines be communicated as thoughtfully and clearly as possibly. The roles we fulfill will undoubtedly have to change, adapt, and expand to meet the conditions and realities of the post-pandemic school day. It is here where flexibility is of the utmost importance, but how do we know what that means? Who will do what? What will the safety protocol look like? What are our means for ensuring compliance with hygiene and cleanliness standards? I’m sure I could go on forever. The point is — spelling out as much as we can will help ease anxiety and avoid burnout.

Communication.  This one goes hand-in-hand with clarity, but it’s vital to the entire process, and without it, nothing will work as we need or want it to. The lines of communication must be open so that every stakeholder (i.e. parent, student, teacher, staff member, and administrator) believes that they have an avenue to express their voices and that the messages conveyed are not only received, but acknowledged and valued. The communication must be clear, regular, and consistent. It should neither undercut nor overwhelm. We must strive to be transparent with everyone. Toward that end, we can make tutorials for parents so that they know how and when to access important information — a courtesy we would naturally extend to students — and one that administrators should likewise practice with staff.

The bottom line is that we have all been traumatized to some degree by what 2020 has thrown at us so far, and as we confront the reality of whatever happens next, we are likely to proceed with caution as the fear and confusion work in tandem to block us at every turn. I mean, if a year could be personified as a fictional character, this one would be a total Regina George. The key, then, is to be mindful of that. We have to be kind to one another and do more than merely say that “we’re all in this together” — let’s take actionable steps to make good on that made-for-social media hashtag. If we establish that as our primary goal and work collaboratively to not just “reopen” schools but to reimagine them, then I truly believe the outcome can be transformative.

Good luck as you gear up for whatever is next.

Some rabbit holes I fell down en route to this entry: 

• Helpful article with really helpful slides from MindShift
• Podcast on remote learning practices from Cult of Pedagogy
• TED Talk about overcoming bias
• Resources from common sense education

 You might be familiar with a well-told story in which a man asks a young boy what he wants to be when he grows up, and the child responds — “kind.” The exchange is rife with miscommunication. The boy’s answer prompts the adult to believe that he simply didn’t understand the question. To the man’s great surprise, the little boy feels the same way about him. It’s classic folklore like this that exploits just what’s wrong with our educational bent toward answer-seeking. It isn’t that we’re forever asking the wrong questions — it’s just that, more often than not, we’re not listening carefully enough to the answers given. When you ask a child to think about the future, most are quick to share their hopes and dreams in full color and with all the glitter they can muster from their little bodies (can you tell that I have daughters?). When asked about their future selves and what they can achieve, young children don’t hold back. The future is a wide open blank canvas to them; they don’t see limits and obstacles. So, my question is — at what point does that begin to change? When do they start scaling back and thinking more “realistically?” When do they learn which roads are traversable, which systems are rigged, and how many cards might be stacked against them when any given hand is dealt? At what point do children trade in the freedom of imaginative play that takes its own fluid shape and employs absolutely no logic for the hard and fast rules of standard-issue games? I haven’t been able to pinpoint that exact timeframe, but, for me, Genius Hour represented a critical return to this kind of creative liberty and license. Throughout the process, I learned a great deal and it provided me with a return ticket to the full-color and glittery days of my youth. I believe I am a better teacher for having gone through this experience with my students this year. From the outset of my interest, I read everything I could find online, I watched countless videos, and I attended a workshop to learn more about implementing Genius Hour in the classroom. I decided to dip a toe in the water to gauge the level of support I would have in carrying out something quite so ambitious and sought the feedback of my principal and other teachers, all of whom were on board. At that point, I waded in to the shallow end by curating an introduction for students and parents, and then finally took the plunge and rolled it out. My favorite part, by far, was challenging the students to cast off their fears. They seemed to put unnecessary limitations on themselves, and I was all too eager to serve as one of those inflatable bop bags that automatically pop right back up when you push it down. They would start out excitedly talking through an idea and then almost dismissively write it off as outrageous and undoable. My role was always to redirect them from their insecurity about pursuing something big just because it seemed scary; rather, I would ask questions about their vision and offer advice for getting started, suggest avenues for them to explore, or provide contacts to get in touch with. The unexpectedly reluctant pragmatism of the high school seniors I encountered was no match for the unexpectedly gleeful seven year old they found in me. 

I think it was this kind of positive interaction and constructive guidance that made a difference for them and for me. The support I garnered from my principal and other colleagues was immensely helpful — it enabled me to pursue Genius Hour without reservation and afforded me the peace of mind to present it to my students like an open book just waiting for them to leave their mark, in whatever form came to them. Without that collective will, what my students and I experienced would have been very different. Christine Porath confirmed that for me in this TED Talk, excerpted below. She says throughout her talk,

Civility lifts people. We’ll get people to give more and function at their best if we’re civil. We can do better. Each one of use can be more mindful and can take actions to lift others up around us, at work, at home, online, in schools and in our communities. In every interaction, think: Who do you want to be?

Despite the setbacks and the unprecedented final stretch of the school year, this project showed my students who they are and who they can be. Many of them started out with ideas of grandeur — from wanting to immediately launch their own companies to establishing fan bases for overnight fame — but they quickly realized that is isn’t necessarily about achieving larger than life outcomes as much as it’s about taking joy in the little things and the small victories. What started out for some as a way to make a name for themselves transformed into an altruistic mission to serve the wider community. They learned to knit and instead of seeking profit, they shared their craft with hospital nurseries. They created art out of recyclable materials, and, in the process, united a community behind the goal of environmental sustainability. They made videos that served as public service announcements in the language and medium of their peers, reminding them that their relationships and values and well-being matter — encouraging them to always put their best foot forward, even when it’s hard to take a step. They shared themselves and their dreams openly. The year may not have turned out as I imagined, but it did give me the chance to reflect on just how proud I am of what they were able to accomplish. As they graduate today, I am hopeful and optimistic that they can make this world a better place.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge that the message I’ve learned and shared at every turn isn’t just for teachers or for students, for grown-ups or for children. It’s something that I very much believe is universal, and it falls on each and every one of us to make sure that every person has the opportunity — that everyone can dream safely and pursue their goals with childish curiosity and reckless abandon. We must help one another to realize our dreams and never stop asking ourselves — who do you want to be?

Without the backdrop of a pandemic-induced sense of urgency, Sesame Street broke down barriers and used public television to educate children. They’re still up and running, continuing to this day to help children learn the fundamentals – from math and literacy to  to expressing emotions and coping with hard times. It serves as a good reminder that that’s exactly the mission of public education, and this is our chance to get creative. We have to acknowledge the tough questions and work together as a diverse community to support each other and our children going forward.

As the 2019-2020 school year comes to a close, the question on everyone’s mind is: what about next year? The county in which I live and work is slated to move to a “yellow” phase of reopening by June 5th. I’m still not entirely sure what that means, but I do know that the “green” phase of this traffic-light system hardly means “back to normal.” As far as I’ve heard, several nearby school districts are exploring the possibility of staying online in the fall, while some are considering opening their doors, and others, I suppose, are toying with the potential of some sort of hybrid model. There are arguments to be made for all of these options and only a thoughtful, and maybe even creative, decision will bring us together to carve out a way forward on our journey.

Jennifer Gonzalez did an amazing job of spelling out several options and what they might mean for teachers, in particular. Her carefully curated work won’t send you into panic mode. She simply offers an organized slate of resources to help you explore matters further. I especially liked that she included words of caution from schools that shuttered and then reopened after Hurricane Katrina. I also found her discussion of remediation vs spiraling to be useful – the former certainly has a place here but not without the latter. After all, reinforcing skills that may have been lost during distance learning is important, but reintroducing information so that students can continue to stay on track without losing more time is key. Gonzalez shares resources, best practices, and sound advice – it’s exactly the pragmatic contribution to the public dialogue that we need right now as we face more of the unknown.

I recently read that Finland is moving to a new educational model. They intend to make learning more authentic, which appears to be part of the contemporary holy grail of buzzwords. While discussing this with a friend, I mentioned how much I love to collaborate with other educators and help students learn my content by examining the world around them and by exploring what piques their curiosity, but I also believe that there’s something to be said for having a foundational fluency in a variety of subjects because you never know when you might change your mind or be taken over by a new interest, or when a new and totally unprecedented situation might arise that requires us to marshal our collective knowledge and common sense.

It’s worthwhile to keep in mind that there is important information and best practices to be gleaned from prior disasters, and it’s important to keep a close eye on other countries that have endured the ups and down of phased reopening plans. We can also learn a lot from educators that have used online platforms to reach students who never set foot in a brick and mortar building.

Last week, President Obama gave some guidance to the Class of 2020 that, it occurs to me now, applies to a much broader audience. In his commencement speech, the advice came in three parts: “First, don’t be afraid. Second, do what you think is right. And finally, build the community.”

We can’t be afraid to return to our calling even if it appears scary, and it’s important to be mindful that the words we choose really matter. Instead of admonishing children for getting too close to one another, we should use the language and provide the tools that foster respect. I’ve seen statements like this one on Facebook written by Rachel Zerin, and I’ve found that it’s exactly the message we want to send to the community – it promotes kindness over fear – and it calls on us to remember something critical yet simple:  “Remember, being good neighbors right now means giving people space.”

We must do what is right for ALL students, which might look different at times. They all have unique obstacles to overcome. It’s precisely our role to help them in that effort and to lead them toward realizing their full potential along the way. Ready or not, we are in a period of flux that demands change, and we must meet that challenge willingly and willfully. We need to put the needs of our students first. If we do that, then the foundation we build – whether in a brick and mortar structure or on a digital platform – is strong. 

As we amble toward the finish line of this year, it’s important to stop, take a breath, and ask one another for directions – so, can you tell me how to get to the place where we can ensure the safety and best interest of our students and each other? Something tells me we’ll get there, and the connections we make and lessons we learn will leave us better prepared for the crossroads ahead. 

I’m feeling a bit homesick. I guess that seems weird given that that’s where the majority of the world is stationed right now — at home. I tend to see things a bit differently, though, and so I’ve always been a firm believer that home isn’t merely a place. It’s a feeling. One that transcends walls. It’s a feeling of security and of understanding and of…well…love. That feeling doesn’t grow out of the brick and mortar, although the close proximity of those confined within the walls does tend to help. Ultimately, however, home is born of the interactions between people.

Maybe it’s the comments from my students that gave rise to this feeling. I can sense their longing for routine as they struggle to create a new one on their own. They miss each others’ faces and voices. I miss them too. Maybe it is actually the lack of yellow cinder brick walls and the familiar sounds of a building that drips and creaks and cracks with age. I think that without realizing it, I may have grown accustomed to the relentless bells, the hum of the heating vent, the noise of the trash truck emptying the dumpster right outside of my classroom…all of which I’ve had to talk over, drown out with music playing from a portable speaker, or simply unconsciously absorb as the white noise of my environment. I never realized how cognizant I was of those sounds until they were no longer a fixture of my daily life. In other words: the sounds of home. 

Maybe it’s purely the monotony of the days. They seem to run together, and I can’t tell if it’s March or August let alone whether it’s Saturday or Thursday.

When I came across the Welsh word for homesick — hiraeth — it resonated. Right now, despite being surrounded by the trappings of familiarity, everything seems different, and I find myself looking for something that I might not be able to return to.

When you look up how to cope with homesickness, a few strategies appear at the top of most lists: make a schedule, exercise, be brave, connect with your new situation, talk with friends, and give it time. I believe I’m embracing these strategies and I’m trying to motivate my students to do the same. There’s no one-size-fits-all solution to the problem of making yourself at home in what is essentially a new world. It is — like so many things — a matter of trial and error. Try to set a schedule that works for you and that you can consistently maintain. My office hours are a sort of springboard to that end for me, but the students have a daily array of Google Meets that can serve them in much the same way, so I strongly encourage them to make good use of that time. I’m a big believer in the value of face-to-face interaction, and, perhaps selfishly, I miss them. I remind them that their feedback is important for me to make distance learning effective, and that their methods for getting through this entire experience are vital for their peers who are floundering and unsure of where to turn. I urge them to share the strategies that are working for them, as well as those that aren’t, and many have extolled the virtues of exercising and have mentioned that just getting outside for some fresh air and a change of scenery have been a major mood-booster. 

In trying to connect with this new situation, I am willing myself to embrace the positives, while still allowing myself to vent my frustration and to mourn what’s been lost. I’ve gleaned a lot of pleasure from discovering new avenues for student choice. For example, I’ve found that while Flipgrid can be an amazing platform, my students just aren’t into it. I’ve learned that Schoology has a feature that enables students to choose a medium that best suits them —  text, audio or video — when formulating a response. By affording students a little bit of latitude, I’ve hopefully restored some degree of the control that they’re struggling to exert over their own lives. The thoughtful and grateful reactions I’ve garnered in response to this experiment are reassuring, and they’ve compelled me to find as many ways as possible to put the students in the driver’s seat.

In preparation for the next phase, I’m crafting a student-reflection piece that will almost certainly allow them to employ personal choice. I might also try to create one of these virtual Bitmoji classrooms, which promises to merge the content of the course with the environment we left behind.

The most difficult part of the process is giving it time. As I type, we are entering our eleventh week of sheltering in place. No one knows exactly what’s in store or what the next phase looks like or when we’ll enter into it. We’re just learning and adapting without an end-date in sight, which creates a huge amount of unrest. So, in the meantime, I’m doing what I can to make the best of it while remembering that there is absolutely no shame in being homesick. It just means you come from a happy home.

I was struggling with what to write this week. I have so many thoughts and feelings that I wasn’t sure how to sew them together or if I should even try to. How coherently would a cobbled-together Franken-blog post turn out to be? 

And then I saw this.

It was just the reminder I needed to reassure me that unorthodox isn’t bad. I mean, my favorite meals buck every social convention you can imagine. I like to go progressive and I like to hit the dessert-course first. And hard. 

I think that in many situations, we either try to make the best of something or we try to be the best at something. We forget that the pressure we put on ourselves to be the best constrains us from unleashing all of the awesomeness that we have to offer. I’ve struggled with this myself. The voice that says, “you aren’t the BEST one” has historically been loud enough to drown out the one nagging me to share anyway. That voice is the one reminding me that what I bring to the table just might be good enough to satisfy someone else’s needs.

It’s like what you often hear teachers saying to students, “ask the question because you’re probably not the only one who has it.” It’s a common refrain, but that’s only because it happens to be true and we all need to be reminded of it from time to time. It’s all in the sharing and collaborating — that’s where the magic happens. It’s in the acknowledgement that you don’t have to be all-knowing. You don’t have to have all of the answers or be the best. You just have to be vulnerable and open enough to ask questions and put yourself out there. It turns out…that can be really hard to do. 

I find that it’s far easier with kids than with adults.

Teenagers deserve more credit than they often get. Especially now. pic.twitter.com/YrEaXxIs10

— We Are Teachers (@WeAreTeachers) May 9, 2020

This resonates, too. We spend so much time focusing on ourselves — professional development, best practices, logistics, priorities, curricular programming — but somewhere in that process, we lose sight of the very people we’re working to reach in the first place. One of the reasons I love working with teenagers is that they can be discomfitingly unfiltered. We can get their raw thoughts and genuine feelings…as long as we remember to ask. But all too often, we don’t ask; instead, we project how they should feel, or how they should act, or what they should be passionate about. We put them into very different categories based on what we need from them without always thinking fully about what they need from us. They are children when we want them to obey the rules and listen to their elders; yet, they are adults if we want them to be responsible self-starters that adhere to deadlines. We make them run from one side of our expectations to the other in a confusing game of Red Rover…

So instead of projecting, I say we take the imperfect route and just ask them what they want and need. The key, though, is what comes next: listening. We have to really listen. The kind of listening where you aren’t just nodding along thinking of what to say next so that you appear to have an answer for everything. You might be pleasantly surprised by what you hear and by the connections you can make.

Truthfully — I don’t have all the answers either. But I’ve been listening hard, and from what I can tell, I know that they miss going to school. They miss the routine. They miss their friends. They even miss us almost as much as we miss them. They liked the classical music streaming in the background while they worked and the cheesy jokes that never seemed to land but always made them smile despite themselves. They feel robbed, too. This isn’t how they wanted the year to go, but they appreciate what people are trying to do to make up for it. That being said, they’re embracing the positive side of this distance learning experience. The flexibility of falling away from a bell schedule can be pretty cool. They like that “going to class” means sitting up in bed and then rolling right back over a half an hour later to finish sleeping. They like taking dance breaks in the middle of the night (seriously, so much correspondence at 2:00 AM!) while submitting work. They like working at their own pace. They have good and bad days; days where they feel completely overwhelmed and days where everything is a breeze. It’s a roller coaster for all of us, to be sure, but I take great comfort in knowing that we’re still on this ride together.

I truly believe that open communication, collaboration and connection are what takes what we do from being good to being great. To that end, I’ve been trying to keep tabs on what’s going on around me as much as I can within the constraints of being sheltered in place. Sharing has been, by far, one of my favorite (and one of the most comforting) highlights of living through this pandemic. So many teachers have been generously sharing what they have and what they know with as wide a network as possible. Educational and tech companies have been making their resources freely accessible just to help make teaching and learning that much easier for us all. I have seen so much collaboration, and I have to give a HUGE shout out to my department here because the way we’ve pulled together as a team is nothing short of amazing. I can’t imagine how isolating and overwhelming this could be without a good support system.

I have heard so many people talking about how we can use this moment in time to reflect and improve upon the existing system. I have also seen people comforting others by reminding them that it’s okay if they just don’t have the wherewithal to take it all on right now. The spectrum of feelings, reactions, emotions, and ideas spans farther than ever, and you could get seriously winded moving from one end to the other…and back again.

I recently asked my students to share with me where they stood with their Genius Hour projects. It was just a status-update inquiry, and I reassured them that it was okay if they didn’t get to where they thought they would. It was okay for their projects to be unfinished. Most of them were very real and unguarded in what they shared, but there was a small number of them that didn’t share at all. Naturally, that had me thinking — why didn’t they? They were so excited about their progress, and we had some amazing discussions that left them laughing at my inability to contain the excitement I felt for them as they pursued a genuine passion project. So, why the crickets? Where did I go wrong?

Well, I got my answer on Twitter.

Q5 What can/could we do for those students who are NOT inspired and have not shown an interest in #geniushour at home? pic.twitter.com/TDQ44yNm6P

— Joy Kirr (she/her) (@JoyKirr) May 8, 2020

These kids had bold dreams that suddenly came to a full stop. My favorite idea was actually put forth in a comment about making heartbreak maps. I decided to add that as an option going forward. I had provided a platform for my students to share, but I neglected to give them the option to tell me that this whole situation just flat-out sucks and that they feel let down by it all and that they can’t make something better out of it than what it is. This week, I’ll throw that out as an option and see what I get back. It doesn’t have to be pretty. Maybe their thoughts and feelings are all over the place — meandering, messy, and sewn together — a Franken-reflection perfectly suited to the kind of year they’ve had.  

Hey, teachers: just in case no one has told you lately – YOU ARE AMAZING! Really and truly.

Teacher Appreciation Week is upon us, and if you’re anything like me, then the events and tokens that typically crop up during this week fill you with apprehension and maybe even a touch of dread. In my case, it’s not ingratitude; it’s mostly that I hate surprises. No matter how your school celebrates you and what you do – remind yourself that even in their strangest attempts – they mean well.

If you’re out there and reading this and you want to thank a teacher, trust me on this one: a short, heartfelt message could really go a long way.  It’s not that we don’t enjoy or to great pains to display your Pinterest-inspired “teacher appreciation crafts.” It’s just that simplicity and sincerity go SO much further. We want to hear that you value what we do, and we don’t need anything tangible for that to hit home. A simple email would be more than enough to let us know that you see us and what we bring to the table.

So for anyone who needs a reminder: I see you. I see the time stamp on your email because you’re working odd hours to balance home life and work life, and you’re determined not to let anyone down.

I hear you. I hear the cheerful voice welcoming students to a new week of distance learning. I hear you making those phone calls because you just desperately want to know that every last one of your students is okay.  I hear your voice getting shaky because you feel strongly about doing what is right for every kid.

I recognize that you’re attending workshops and webinars to try to make this new platform for learning the best it can possibly be. I know you’re saving every resource from every tech and curriculum company offering free and upgraded services to the folder you’ve labeled “COVID resources.” I see you sweating from the very real physical toll it’s taking to transform in-person lessons into meaningful digital content.

I have tissues for the tears you shed because you miss seeing your students’ faces. The ones you shed when reading the desperate and resigned emails from students who are growing up too fast because they suddenly found themselves uprooted and moving cross-country in the middle of a pandemic, because they’re risking their health every day by working to provide income for their households, because they’re caring for family members young and old, or because they’ve just been flat out broken in some way by this pandemic.

I have tissues for the happy tears, too! For all of the emails from students, parents, and colleagues saying “I miss you,” “I miss school,” and “thank you.” For all of the acceptance letters, scholarships, and virtual incoming freshmen days. For the exuberance of the lightbulb going off when something finally works or clicks, and for the way their faces light up when they log on to the Google Meet or Zoom.

Just take a look at all of the amazing things happening out there. Teachers are driving to students’ houses to help them with their school work from the driveway. They’re leaving problems to ponder on the sidewalk. They’re creating challenges to battle boredom and to expand their students‘ minds. They’re reading aloud to restore some familiarity into our kids’ days and to remind them that they’re loved even outside of the confines of their homes. They are caring for kids – all kids – like Luciana.

There is no doubt in my mind that this profession is a calling. You do what you do for the kids. Whether you know it or not, you are making an impact.  You matter. Don’t ever forget that.

So to every teacher, especially the ones I am fortunate enough to know, remember that no innovation of modern technology can negate you and no degree of distance can displace you. Happy Teacher Appreciation Week!

Just when I thought I might be hitting a rhythm with asynchronous learning, something happened that made me skip a beat. Twice.

My school district informed everyone that we would be rolling out Google Meet as a platform for weekly, real-time interactions with our classes. As soon as the directive came in, a torrent of emotions and thoughts flooded my mind. What time? What day? How will I manage my husband’s calls, my daughters’ school work and Zoom sessions, and now my own live classes all at the SAME time (literally everything that happens in this house is on Wednesday, which just so happens to be the day designated for my department’s Google Meet sessions <insert facepalm emoji here> )?! Easing myself out of panic mode, I bolted to the other side of the spectrum: EEEEEEEEEEEEE! I GET TO SEE MY STUDENTS!!! Then, just as quickly, I spun out of the whirlwind and back into the land of nerves and anticipation. I mean, what if the kids don’t show? My window to meet with them is early in the morning, and given that most of their correspondence has come between the hours of 11:00 PM and 2:00 AM, the odds feel dangerously stacked against their willful participation. Allowing the cacophony of emotions to come to a natural lull, I made a concerted effort to return to my rational state of being. I hadn’t lost my rhythm; I just had to learn to move to a syncopated beat, which, as it turns out, I’ve already been doing for weeks.In an effort to get us acclimated to this new phase of distance learning, my colleagues and I were given training on how to set up our virtual classrooms, and together we walked through the guidelines and expectations set out for teachers and students alike. We were instructed on how to ensure a seamless setup and on establishing consistent procedures for student-access, since, technically, some might be taking in “live” classes up to seven times per week. Plenty of tips and tricks — plus a new buzzword in the “whip around” — were modeled, all of which seemed practical, reasonable and good for the kids.

After all of that, it was finally time to initiate the set-up for my own classes. The fear I had muffled earlier resurfaced and reached a crescendo. I watched the video shared by our tech department while following the steps sent in an accompanying PDF. I had everything organized intuitively, arranging all of the relevant links and schedules with a meticulous attention to detail and an aesthetic flair all my own (and for which I used and highly recommend Canva). And it was at that precise moment — my cursor hovering precariously over the ‘submit’ button on the instructional page I had just painstakingly crafted — that Schoology crashed. So I took that as a sign to take a break (…okay, I admittedly didn’t have much of a choice, but I nevertheless got the hint).

When I returned to my computer, intending to bring my Schoology post to fruition, what I came upon totally rerouted my direction and lifted me out of my anxious fog. I found notifications for a check-in assignment that I had given. The kids were checking in. They did want to be seen and heard. There they were, a beautiful symphony, rising above the noise over schedules and conflicts and content and glitches. Each member of the ensemble present and fully accounted for; some came in like a tuba — playful, exuberant and eager to share. Others chimed in calmly and soothingly, like a row of violins. They shared their experiences, each one unique yet entirely relatable: variations on the same melody. Many were enjoying the freedom from routine — finding themselves happy to eat, play music, and dance while completing their work, while some of their peers lamented the absence of the bells that once brought structure and reliability to the school day. Others shared personal hardships, such as the untimely burden of having to relocate during the pandemic. The dissonance threw me. Suddenly, I dropped the beat and the music was lost.

It’s not about quibbling over the frequency of assignments or about pushing out content with dynamic Google slides. It’s about giving students a voice and providing a platform for reconnecting with them. I’m so grateful that my colleague shared the Schoology check-in assignment with me. Simple yet powerful.

Week 3 Check In — Make a video recording below to check in this week.  Let me know your thoughts on how Distance Learning is going so far for you.  What have you liked?  What is something you are struggling with?  What is a goal you have for the next few weeks?

Thanks, Katie!

Whether they typed, spoke, or made videos — they were thoughtful. I loved reading what they had to say, their own voices serving as the vocal track as I clung to each word. I couldn’t suppress a huge grin each time I opened a video they shared with me. I enjoyed reading and listening and watching, and I relished the opportunity to respond and connect. It was the best form of feedback I’ve received since we began our journey into the world of distance learning, and I have a better sense now of how to make this work for them and for me as we push forward. Just as an example, I found and tweaked this form to help students keep track of all of their assignments — something they told me they were struggling to do.

In the end, what this really helped crystalize for me is that, quite simply, I miss their faces. I miss the always-intriguing conversations and the banter. I miss being able to pick up on their feelings and moods based on a quick, cursory glance. “Jane’s clearly got it but I think I’m losing Jack.” See, in the classroom, those appraisals can be conjured up by your inner-monologue in an instant, and when you lose the context to make those kinds of evaluations about how your kids are truly feeling, the silence it leaves in its wake can be deafening. I am grateful to be afforded a small, fleeting chance to have that again. So now I’m filled with that “beginning of the school year” excitement and buzz in late April, of all times. The warm-up is a little out of tune, but it doesn’t matter because the orchestra is ready to take the stage and no matter what happens, I’m just thrilled to have an opportunity to conduct it.