Twenty Years

Twenty years ago, I made a choice to become a long-term substitute teacher at Satellite Academy High School, where my college friend, Sonia Murrow, taught at the time.  In making the decision to accept that job, I sent my life on a certain trajectory, moving away from the path of material wealth, and towards a more modest existence.

But I also joined the ranks of the Truly Fulfilled.  We walk with a lighter step, and we sleep a more peaceful sleep.  You can see it in our faces; when we come home at night, after a difficult day at work, there's a "lightness" about us that comes from knowing we've helped another person, despite the sometimes considerable challenges it may have entailed.

I tried my hand at a potentially more lucrative position, in a different line of work, just about midway through my career.  That lasted all of about two weeks, I'd say.  I knew almost immediately that selling things to other people was something I wouldn't be very good at, and I couldn't get used to the heaviness I felt at the end of the day -- a weight to which I was unaccustomed.

I'm a buttoned-down administrator now, bald and gray-bearded.  "Seasoned" is the euphemism we tend to use in education.  I've landed at a school I love, and although the days are sometimes stressful, and people, being people, are imperfect and annoying at times, I've finished my twentieth school year filled with the same sense of purpose, and the same lightness, as ever.

To all those of you who read this with whom I've crossed paths in those twenty years -- as your teacher, co-worker, supervisor, teacher of your kid, or friend -- thank you.  Thank you for being a part of my life, and for making these twenty years so special.

Here's to the next twenty!

Just ASK Them

51 Chambers Street where Satellite Academy resided, on one dimly lit, dusty floor,  from the late 70s till 2000

“Slipping through the cracks” is a cliché; however I can tell you it is a very real phenomenon.  Kids do it every day, in hundreds, maybe thousands, of American high schools.   When I worked at a small public school in New York City, especially designed for those students, I knew first-hand of the many ways in which they had failed school, and school had failed them. they wove a common thread when they told of “feeling like a number” and not “being known” in their old schools.  Some kids told stories of being “internal cutters” in buildings so large they could be counted present at certain key moments of the day, then wander into less patrolled sections of the school and “chill” until it came time to leave each afternoon, successfully avoiding classes that bored or confounded them.

Of course back in those days, I was filled with self-satisfaction, knowing I was One of the Good Ones, helping youth find their way back to the educational path from which they had strayed.  I had the opportunity – the luxury, I realize now – to be encouraged by my school’s (and, at one time, my district's) leadership to be a leader myself, in inspiring my students using creative means.  We had approximately 200 students in our building, cared for and educated by around 20 adults.  I’d be lying if I suggested we were successful in guiding all of them, but we were good at helping a majority of them feel they had found a scholastic home – a place where they could be free to be vulnerable in that way that allows you to pick yourself up and try again. 

The school where I work is anything but small, as I have mentioned in a previous post.  In that same post, I meditate on the notion of bringing a “small school mentality” to a large campus.  I don’t know that I had a clear sense of what I meant when I wrote those words the first time, but I think I know now.

And here it is:

Just listen to them. 

It sounds absurdly like an oversimplification, and I know it probably is.  Don’t dismiss the idea, though.  What most of the people who graduated from the school where I taught in New York will tell you (and I hope they’ll read this and chime in) is that the first step comes when a student begins to seriously consider what is not working in their education.  Teachers are asked to reflect on student failure all the time, as they should be.  But rarely do we ask students to think, and talk, about what they believe has gone wrong. 

Here are some questions that a teacher might think about asking their students:

• ·      Tell me about you and school.
• ·      Tell me a about the last time you loved a class and why you think you did.
• ·      Who was the best teacher you ever had and why?
• ·      Who was the worst teacher you ever had and why?  (No names, please.)
• ·      What do you think you need in order to be successful?

There are teachers who will read this and have a negative response, dismissing me as one of those liberals who enables children, rather than challenging them.  I’d argue that these questions are challenging ones – especially to ask sincerely and in a safe atmosphere that will ensure honest results.  Some will say, “Well, when I was a student no one asked me questions like these.  They just told you to do the work, and either you did it, or you didn’t.”

What I would encourage that teacher to understand is that the self-actualization they may have had as a teenager is rare.  Yes, many of our students are capable of pushing through whatever the assignment is, with a minimum of help.  However, there are others who bring with them through our school doors myriad shackles, accumulated over years of failure and/or being passed along. 

It’s difficult for you to know every one of your students well in a school where your individual student load approaches 200 – the TOTAL number of students we worked with in our small transfer high school in New York City.  I don’t deny that.   But the teachers I see thriving, coming to work with smiles on their faces, and leaving in the afternoon looking invigorated and not depleted, tend to be the ones that try.  Keep fighting the good fight.  And if you want to take a step in the right direction, stop that one kid who keeps on failing, seemingly without a care in the world, and ask him my first question. 

“Tell me about you and school.” 

You might be amazed at what you hear, and it might just energize you at the same time. 

But one thing is for sure:

You’ll never know if you don’t just ask.

Thank You, Satellite Academy High School

It's not unusual to hear graduates or alumni of an educational institution talk about how much of an impact their school made on them. In my own case, I've written recently about my good memories of Harrison High, many brought back by my trip home last month for the HHS 30th reunion.

Less often does one hear from a former teacher about the benefits of having been a part of a school's faculty. I've been an ardent proponent of Satellite Academy High School, where I worked from 1992 to 2005, for about as long as I've known about the place. Designed with the disaffected student in mind, Satellite is a place that builds students back up who have been worn down by the relentless tides of impersonal, traditional schooling. Satellite puts the student squarely at the center of the educational equation -- not in a babying way but in a fashion that affords respect and autonomy while simultaneously insisting on accountability. Students are amazed at first, then thrilled and humbled by how different Satellite feels, in contrast to their "old" schools.

As the adults in charge of such a place it was imperative that we lived the dream, so to speak; we had no choice but to model the values of the place, if it was to work the way it was meant to. For most of us working at Satellite was a rare example of being allowed to live out the idealism of what had brought us to teaching in the first place. Occasionally a teacher would wow us at the interview table and then end up being outside our fold, someone who insisted they taught subject as an expert, and either the students got it or they didn't. Their humanity (or "humaneness") never entered into how they thought about teaching and learning.

Those teachers didn't last too long. Usually the place made them into True Believers eventually. Sometimes, though, they tendered their resignations, stating the school was a "bad fit." And they were right, and thank God they were honest.

Now, in my middle-aged administrator phase, I occasionally receive praise for my "unusual" leadership style. I've learned to ask people to elaborate when giving me any kind of feedback, even praise -- not because I like the tolling of my own bell, but because I can replicate what I know works only if I know what it is.

Most people have trouble putting it into words. Some call it kindness, and others say I make them feel like professionals. Generally, they say I do things "a little differently."

This should come as no surprise to me, as I "grew up," essentially, in a small, different high school called Satellite Academy, where kindness, respect and a sense of humor went a long, long way. I want to bring a "small school mentality" to my gigantic, 3,000-student school where I currently work, and I think I am doing it so far.

My Reticence Regarding "Distance" Learning

Don’t jump to conclusions. Yes, I’m a bit of a dinosaur, not quite comfortable with all the technology by which I now find myself surrounded. And yes, I remember the days when I asked my students to hand in “typed” final drafts of their papers.

In the past ten years or so, as I’ve heard the discussion of “distance” or “on-line” learning go from a murmur to a roar, from a seldom-chosen option, to one that is now expected to save the world (or at least a lot of money), I have to admit to always having felt a bit uneasy about the concept. At first I’m sure it was just a case of Fear of the Unknown. But even now that I know a bit more about the topic -- and granted, I need to learn even more -- I still find myself unsure of the idea.

I wasn’t sure where this was coming from, until this morning, when I found myself in a meeting with some local district people, talking about dropout recovery. Distance Learning entered the discussion at one point, and my Edu-sense started tingling once again.

And then I understood where my misgivings were coming from.

It goes back to my days as a teacher at Satellite Academy High School, where I worked with some of the most disaffected, disappointed and generally disengaged students in the New York City school system. We didn’t succeed with all of them; many of them were too far gone, thanks to previous experience, by the time they got to us. Try as we might, we could not reverse the tide for those students, sadly.

But we did turn the tables for many. Our task was to reintroduce them to school and to convince them that there was a better way for them than what had failed for them previously.

So much of this was about people and relationships that it’s hard for me to imagine doing that work via the Internet. We needed to be in a room with our students. I wrote my graduate thesis on advisory, and called it (rather pretentiously, I now believe), The Magic Circle.

But that’s what it was. That’s really what the whole school was. It was about young people and adults sitting in the same room and looking at each other, confronting each other about what they could and couldn’t do. Arguing. Reaching compromise and consensus. For those of us – adults and students alike – who let Satellite work for us, it was a transformative experience, one that changed us for the better.

Speaking for myself, I wouldn’t trade it for all the Internet access in the world.

There may be some situations in which isolation on the Internet can be a good thing. I’ve seen it work first-hand, for example, using the Hallway Project, a model that has truants and classroom disruptors taken out of their regular classes and placed in highly individualized project-based work, with ample face time with a teacher/coach.

But those kids still need interaction. They need to be able to meet with their peers and talk about what excites them, disappoints them, challenges them and invigorates them. They need the Magic Circle that a good school should always provide.

I do see Distance Learning as a potentially positive evolution in schooling. My fear is that people – particularly the number crunchers – will try to use it as a panacea, to cure all the ills of public education.

For at-risk students and dropouts, isolation is not the answer. Put them in front of a computer screen for part of their day. But don’t deny them the benefits of human interaction in the process.

(Satellite) Kids Say the Darnedest Things

I recently posted this photo of a hat my lovely bride bought me at the Zilker Garden Festival here in Austin. As expected, a few people commented on the menacing nature of my scowl. But then one of my former students from Satellite Academy commented on it, saying "Sunscreen, Dan."

(I guess she thought my skin looked kind of red, which I suppose it does, now that I look at it. I've got a minor case of rosacea, and have for some time now.)

This brought me back to Satellite, when my students used to love to comment on my skin tone. "Yo, Dan, whattsup? Why you so RED??"

"Because that's my skin tone," was my standard answer. Sometimes I'd use it as a "teachable moment" and talk about the rosacea.

"Yeah, but you MAD RED, Dan!" Of course all the attention would then make me turn even redder.

I learned early on not to take these moments personally. And what am I going to say, really? "Stop looking at me."? These poor children had to look at me six hours out of their day.

I can remember some teachers getting really upset by the direct nature of the way our students addressed our appearances. One of the talk shows that were wildly popular with our students at that time -- Springer, maybe -- had a recurring spot that allowed kids to bring in their teachers for a makeover. My students were wild about the notion of a makeover.

When they asked me whether I'd be willing to go on the show, if they could convince the show to have me, I said, "Sure, why not?"

I never heard anything about it, so I assume they never got the call to bring their teacher in. I know, I know, it would have made a better story had I been on the show. The way I prefer to think of it is that they sent in a photo and the producers decided I was too pretty to be a "before" picture. (The photo below, notwithstanding. My wife STILL gives me hell about that shirt...)

Anyway, I'd like to officially thank Liz for her concern about my skin, and I'd also like to thank all my former students about never being too shy to speak their minds. I love and miss them all. (Well, almost all...) ; o )