Little Things to Like About a Big School

With 3,065 students -- the largest reported enrollment  of any high school in Central Texas -- Cedar Ridge could soon become an athletics giant.
                                                                        -- Austin American Statesman

I'm finishing off my first school year as one of five assistant principals at Cedar Ridge, and am coming to terms with not being a "small schools guy" any more.

My standard sound bite has been that I try to bring a "small schools mentality" to the big school.  Honestly, I'm not exactly sure what that means, but it sounds good and folksy, like I'm coming from a tiny rural district in West Texas, where the principal doubles as the bus driver and the football players all play both offense and defense.

The fact of the matter is that there are a lot of little things to like about a big school. 

I love driving up to a big Texas high school in the fall, when the sun is hitting the parking lot hash marks, and casting long shadows on the marching band as they work out their formations.  The digital metronome clicks out a beat that can be heard for miles, and the amplified voice of the director, standing 50 feet up in the tower, barks out feedback. 

"Faster, Cody!  I need you to be faster than that!"

I love the sight of the choir, dressed in their formal wear of black tuxedos and dresses, loading on to cheese buses that will take them to the statewide UIL competition.

I love the SWAG.  Every new Cedar Ridge T-shirt I receive is like that Christmas present in back of the tree that I hadn't seen before, or the Easter egg that none of the other kids noticed behind the drainpipe.

Oh, and in the case of my particular large school, I love driving past the horse stables as I roll up at around 8 in the morning.  The only horses I ever saw at my small schools in New York were the mounted police who clopped by every so often, causing my students to ooh and aah and ask if they could put their horses. 

I suppose the one thing that remains the same is the attitude I try to bring through the door every day.  Humor, kindness and a positive pre-supposition that the rest of the people in the building -- adults and children alike -- are there for the right reasons are probably the three best things I bring (and have always brought) to the table.  My hope is that this will benefit the young people I work with, whether in a school of 300 or 3,000.  Only time will tell. 

The Inexorable Awkwardness of the High School Cafeteria

(Based on a tweet by Dan Fuchs)

Anyone who knows anything about high school administrators knows that lunch duty is a part of their job. You stand in the cafeteria and don't do much of anything, other than provide an adult presence, and maybe a sense of safety for those young people who find being in a gigantic, noisy room with 700 of their peers a bit intimidating. Occasionally you correct naughty behavior. Once in a great while, you prevent a fight from happening or escalating.

I actually don't mind my time in the cafeteria, each day from 12:45 to 2. In fact, it's kind of a nice break in the action, and I get to have good interactions with our students. I have good fun with them, like pretending I'm a waiter, either just after they sit down ("Good afternoon, ladies. Has anyone told you about our specials today?") or as they linger after the first bell has rung ("How was everything here, all right? Can you get you anything else? Coffee? Desert?") My experience brings the script right back, and there's always a moment where they're not quite sure what-all is going on. Then I let them off the hook, and tell them -- in the latter case -- to get to class. I even taught my "family handshake" -- the one I invented with my two young sons' help -- to a couple of kids.

There are a few features that make our lunchroom feel a bit less like a prison commissary (than say Evander Childs Campus, where I had my last AP Job). For one thing, there's a Java City at the south end of the room, where kids can sit and sip on a latte, a little removed from the din of the rest of place. Also, the chairs are individual and can be picked up and moved, which they are, daily.

As a result, you get the big, over-populated (and invariably LOUD) tables full of popular kids -- either the jocks, or the artists, or the skate geeks. There are a few tables that stand out -- the one with the very mature students who eat, calmly chatting, as though they're in a quiet Bistro somewhere, the singletons, who prefer to read a book as they eat, and the "Loud Nerds" table, where artsy kids need to continue their self-expression through primal scream therapy. The fumbling search for identity is undeniable, as these young ones figure out how they fit into this microcosm of an even more confusing world, just outside our doors.

In The Principal's Office

At this stage of my career, I don't think I could count the number of principal's offices I've been in. I've strategized with them, looked over grants, discussed action plans, listened to them complain and celebrate and vent and dream. I've served them as a teacher, grant manager, assistant principal, program officer, director and school improvement facilitator. I've worked with confident leaders who have years of experience, and first-year administrators who look like deer caught in headlights.

I've probably logged as many hours sitting across tables and desks from principals, since I left the classroom in 2004, as I have in any given cubicle I've occupied during that time.

Yet, it's funny: Each and every time I sit and wait for a principal (and I ALWAYS sit and wait, because the nature of a principal's life is that meetings run long), there comes a moment when I get this feeling that can be described in only one way -- I feel like I'm in trouble.

You'd think that having occupied The Big Chair myself, I'd be able to shrug off this sensation after a while, but no. It's there with me every time. The other day, at Fred Florence Middle School, I nearly turned to the boy sitting next to me, who was holding an ice pack to a swollen cheek, to ask, "What're you in for?" Instead, I summoned up my best grown-up voice and said, "Are you all right, young man?" "Yes, sir," he replied politely, lying, I'm sure. One doesn't sit in the principal's waiting area with an ice pack on ones face if one is "all right."

He's in trouble. A woman in a nurse's uniform appears from a door I hadn't noticed and the boy disappears behind it with her. Eventually, the principal is done with her previous meeting and summons me to "come on in." As it turns out, I'm not in trouble. In fact, she's glad I'm there, as they usually are, because I am someone who is there to partner with them, clear up questions they may have, and generally make their lives easier. My reticence gives way to an enjoyment of what I'm doing. I derive professional satisfaction knowing that I've been of assistance to the head of the school, the person ultimately responsible for improving the lives of every child in that building.

I wish I could say I was in trouble a lot as a kid myself, that these fears represented some kind of "flashback" to my days of youthful rebellion. It would make a better story if I could. The closest I ever came to anything like that was when Coach Kearney, our Dean of Discipline at Harrison High, pulled me over in the hall one day and asked, "Danny, how's Mr. Greco's class?" I cringed and didn't answer. "You've missed a few of his classes lately." "Yeah, a couple," I agreed. "A couple? Danny, you haven't been to Mr. Greco's class in three weeks."

I explained to Mr. Kearney that my truancy was due to a technicality ("I lived in Michigan in tenth grade and missed Global Studies, and now they're making me take it, and I'm in a class full of my little brother's friends, and c'mon, Coach.").

"I really should send you down to Mr. Hunter's office," he paused for effect, looking up and down the hallway, at what, I wasn't sure. "But you're a good kid, Danny. If I talk to Joe Greco and tell him you'll make it to his class and make up the work you've missed, are you gonna make me a liar?" "No, sir," I said in the meek voice I thought he wanted to hear. "Cause I'll come after you if you do," he smiled. "Yes, sir."

And I got away with 15 cuts. Just by being a Good Kid. Maybe I've stumbled upon the reason for my anxiety whenever I sit in the main office waiting room. Would I feel less culpable if Coach Kearney had sent me to the assistant principal's office? It could very well be.

We'll never know....