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....

The Loneliness of the Staff Developer

It's been a great conference. The walls are covered with inspired ideas and plans with which to carry them out. We have thought with the end in mind. We have stormed and normed and begun to form. My participants have shared their work with each other and talked about what they'll do next. I thank them, and then ask if they have any final thoughts, questions or comments. They say no, and thank me back, perhaps with a smattering of polite applause thrown in there, and begin to mingle their way to the door.

Then comes that inevitable moment when you're standing there, smiling, and you realize that your subjects are done with you. Done. Already they have started moving on with their lives. They begin making calls and texting. Slowly, you move away from them, back into your staff development space, and you look at the detritus of your profession -- post-it notes, markers of every color and fruity scent, chart paper, laptops connected to LCD projectors, and jump drives you're starting to get confused. Your "Thank You" or "Venture Forth" slide blinks brightly at you, and only you, like an insincere actor's smile. Suddenly, in the silent, empty room, it seems sadly comical, so you turn it off and listen to the sound of the projector cooling down. You begin to critique yourself: Was I too directive? Did I encourage enough participation? Why don't I know everyone's name yet? It's not that big of a group.

When I deliver staff development, I always try to remember what worked for me as a participant: Don't talk at me the whole time. Ask me my opinion. I have things to say, and so do all these other interesting people in the room, who are struggling with all the same things as me. Ask their opinions. Get us talking to each other. My sense is that I've done this for the group these past two days.

Nowadays, when I go to conferences or trainings as a participant, I always make it a point to go up to the presenter at the end and thank them, during that weird time when we make that switch to our real lives and exit the bubble of "what-could-be," because I know what an odd and lonely feeling they have at that moment.

I'm not saying it isn't sometimes a relief to be done; it often is. Sometimes very much so. However, there's this odd shift that occurs, when the stuff you've been discussing for the past however long goes from being the center of the group's universe to being relegated to the stockpile of "things-outside-the-day-to-day" I don't like being in that realm. It's something like living in limbo for me.

Today, as everything winds to a close, and I gather up my materials, a young lady from a school near Houston makes it a point to poke her head in the door, before checking out of the hotel and heading home.

"Listen, Dan, I just wanted to make sure to find you to thank you for a great conference," she smiles, waves and is gone.

"Thank you," I say after her, and wonder if I've made a difference in the life of that young teacher and, consequently, in the lives of her students.

Of course, I have to believe I have. I let her thanks echo in my head as I shake off that strange loneliness and gather up my things, before finding my fellow staff developers and asking that age-old question that educators have been asking since the Dawn of Time: "Who's buying?"