What I Didn't Know Page 2

  While my role as an educator includes ensuring that students learn the required academic content, I also want them to feel valued, respected, and free to take risks in my class. Fostering a collaborative culture and building relationships is one of the often overlooked lessons in schools. I want every one of my students to have felt included and represented in the conversation and to remember how they felt in my class. As educators, we must work together to find ways to empower our students intellectually, socially, and emotionally. We should use our students’ cultural experiences as a way to impart knowledge and skills and begin to change attitudes, and not as reminders of the obstacles that monopolize their daily lives. Our country has so many different communities—urban, suburban, rural, regional, and even Native American reservations. Our schools have to address the needs of all these communities. We must explore creative and inclusive ways of reaching students. Every child is entitled to an educational experience that is rich and robust and reflective of their personal journey.

  The collection of personal stories in this book illustrates the many ways that teachers show students they care about their academic success and their personal growth. These teachers have engaged families and communities to work together to ensure that students succeed. They have taken the time to learn the stories of their students and understand their journeys and are now sharing those stories here today.

  Jahana Hayes is the 2016 National Teacher of the Year. She is a history teacher and the chairperson of the School of Academic Renown (SOAR) Program at Kennedy High School in the Waterbury Public School district.

  Introduction: Teaching Moments

  Irvin Scott

  I will never forget my first day in the classroom, nearly twenty-six years ago. All had gone relatively well: I’d taught five classes, supervised a study hall, and caught a quick meal during my thirty-minute lunch period. I had made it to the end of my final period—the last minutes before my thirty-or-so students would be set free to attack the waning days of summer. The bell rang, signifying the end of class and the day, and something happened that I will never forget: the students jumped up while I was still speaking. Not only did they completely ignore the fact that I was in the middle of a sentence, but they actually seemed oblivious to the fact that I even existed. And then it happened…

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I exclaimed, raising my voice just slightly above the rumbling of books and feet. It was almost instinctual. And incredibly, all thirty-or-so adolescents froze, almost in mid-air, and slowly turned their eyes to me as if to ask, now what? I was stunned. I honestly hadn’t expected such obedience. “The bell is not your teacher,” I said. “I am, and I am not done giving the assignment for tomorrow.”

  All teachers experience “teaching moments” like this throughout their careers. Those moments are usually an opportunity for teachers to impart some vital, timely knowledge or wisdom to their students. Yet, I have found that these opportunities are often as much about the teacher as they are about the learner. With my end-of-the-first-day power play, for example, both my students and I learned valuable lessons. The students’ lesson? The bell doesn’t save you in Mr. Scott’s class. The lessons for me? If you expect it, they will meet it. Also, begin class with the end in mind; post and bring attention to the assignment at the beginning of class.

  The funny thing is, I don’t remember ever having been taught—during my methods classes in college or anywhere else—how to stop students from running out of the class when the bell rings. (Of course, there is the possibility that I missed that class.) Some of the most powerful teaching lessons happen in real time, in the classroom. Of course, there’s a need for teacher preparation experiences that truly ready teachers for actual classrooms, and I am happy to see the field moving in that direction.

  But there is another way to impart readiness: read actual stories from the field. This is what’s in store for you in What I Didn’t Know. These practitioners speak from the heart and the intellect, bringing the reader into close contact with both the sage on the stage and the guides on the side. Whether in elementary schools or high schools, these teachers chronicle real stories about real students in urban, suburban, and rural communities across the United States (and, in a couple of cases, internationally). If you’re an educator, reading about some of these students may prompt memories of similar students from your own experience. If you’re a parent, you will begin to gain a new appreciation for the joys and challenges of building America’s future by teaching its children. As a former teacher and, now, an educational leader who works to elevate and celebrate great teaching and teachers, reading these stories made me think of my own unforgettable classroom experiences.

  For example, the day one of my senior students, Tracey, asked to talk to me after class. I could tell that something was wrong; Tracey was usually full of life and energy, with a smile that you couldn’t help but respond to in kind. After class we found a quiet room where we could talk. There, she shared with me that she was pregnant and wasn’t sure what to do. She talked about the internal and external struggles she was experiencing. As you might imagine, these difficulties centered on her family, her boyfriend, her peers, and—most of all—herself. This was a first for me, and I was at a loss for what to do. She begged me not to tell anyone, and I felt compelled not to betray her trust. So, I just listened to her. I really don’t remember saying much at all. I just remember her sitting, talking, crying, and talking some more—all the time pleading for me not to share this information with others, which I promised I would not. So, I just listened and then went home and prayed for her.

  Soon after our talk, Tracey’s smile returned and she seemed to be herself again. Because this was happening close to the end of the year, I had no way of knowing what decision Tracey had made. While I continued to wonder, I learned another powerful lesson. I learned how important it is to be there for students. I learned that, most of the time, the best approach is not to tell them what to do or to speak from your own belief system, but rather just to be there, listening, reminding them that they matter enough to be heard.

  This story highlights another key theme that runs through the stories in this collection—teachers are often called upon to occupy roles that go well beyond teaching content. Make no mistake: the role of teaching content is critical and, in my opinion, our number-one responsibility. However, as the saying goes, students don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care. In Mary Ann Hutcheson’s “An Honor and a Privilege,” for example, a teacher guides an entire classroom toward embracing, rather than shunning, a fellow classmate who has done everything imaginable to rebuff the teacher and his fellow students. The teacher’s wise guidance and show of love leads to a poignant moment, which then opens up the floodgates for reciprocal kindness from the student who has caused the most hurt.

  Such displays of love, care, and respect must accompany rigorous and challenging teaching and learning. In my experience, one of the pitfalls that some teachers fall into is the erroneous assumption that it is wrong to push vulnerable students too hard. The logic goes that these students face unbearable challenges and conditions outside of the classroom. Consequently, for these students, school should be a safe, caring, and nurturing environment. It should be a place where students have agency, a way to counter the uncontrollable nature of their environments outside of school. And while I agree with some of that, I am happy to say that this collection also includes stories where teachers take issue with the notion that vulnerable students need to be protected and coddled, not “pushed.” Sure, that pressure and push should be personalized from student to student. Sure, the pressure and push should be accompanied by an authentic relationship with and personal interest in the student—but pressure and academic push must be there.

  After fifteen years in the classroom, I became a principal, and students would occasionally come to my office to complain about a teacher. I would provide a listening ear for a few minutes, but if I saw the conversation shifting towar
d concern about how hard the teacher was on the student, I would abruptly interrupt the student and say something to the effect of, the next time you see this teacher, I want you to thank him or her for caring enough to hold you to high standards. Like children who can’t fully appreciate the methods of their caring but strict parents, these students would leave my office somewhat unconvinced. But I can’t tell you the number of times that those same students—years later, sometimes—would come back to visit those teachers who had relentlessly applied that gentle pressure, in the same way (as one of my mentors used to describe it) that diamonds are made. Henry Brooks Adams has written that “A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops.” The stories collected here show how these influences begin.

  Regarding Tracey, the student who just needed me to listen as she dealt with an unexpected pregnancy: when the year came to a close, I lost track of her. However, one day during the following year, I was teaching and a knock came at the door. I went to open the door, and there stood Tracey—but not alone. She was holding her newborn son in her arms. She had made the decision that was best for her and her circumstances. She would go on to ask me to do the honor of marrying her to her boyfriend, which, of course, I agreed to do.

  I’m reminded of a short, powerful poem by American poet and state legislator John James Ingalls on the importance of seizing the day. In “Opportunity,” Ingalls uses personification to implore us, through Opportunity’s voice: “I knock unbidden once at every gate! // If sleeping, wake—if feasting, rise before / I turn away.” For teachers, every day you walk into the classroom is an opportunity to impact lives. The following enriching stories will show readers how teachers all across America are maximizing these opportunities.

  Welcome to their classrooms.

  Irvin Scott began teaching high school English in 1989 at J. P. McCaskey High School in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. After eleven years in the classroom, Scott became a principal and continued to teach at McCaskey East High School from 2002 to 2006. From 2006 to 2011, Scott was a doctoral student at Harvard University while he worked in a district leadership position (assistant superintendent for high schools and chief academic officer) in the Boston Public Schools. Scott was the deputy director of education at the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation from 2011 to 2016, where he was engaged in supporting and connecting teachers nationally. Scott is currently a faculty member at the Harvard Graduate School of Education in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

  Teacher Edit

  Lynn DeFilippo

  I am sitting with Stephen waiting for him to tell me a sentence. Before we write the sentence, I want him to speak it. If he can say it, he can write it, or so conventional educational wisdom goes. Outside my classroom in Nome, Alaska, snowdrifts and blue sky beckon Stephen and this class of seventh graders like a siren singing to a sailor. Come speed across the tundra on your snow machine. Slide down my hills, reckless. Why write sentences, or paragraphs, or anything, really?

  I teach writing to Stephen and his classmates, mostly Inupiaq and Siberian Yupik boys, during the last class of the day when the allure of the outside world competes against me for their attention. Squirrely boys, they concentrate on how many minutes before the bell rings and what they have to do to stop me from bugging them. Being allowed to line up at the door even three minutes before the bell rings qualifies as a reward. Some boys can’t stop talking while others, like Stephen, hardly talk at all. They all hate to write, or so they proclaim.

  It’s 2010, and I’ve been teaching for eight years, five in Nome. Perched on the shores of Norton Sound in the Bering Strait, Nome—population 3,500—is a regional hub for the handful of surrounding Native villages that dot the coastline of the Seward Peninsula. You can’t drive to Nome from anywhere, but you can fly there on a jet from Anchorage. With a hospital, two grocery stores, a movie theater, several restaurants, a lively bar scene along Front Street, and road access to beautiful, remote countryside, Nome offers the bush Alaska resident a quality of life not found in smaller villages.

  There are thirty-eight seventh graders this year, an especially small number that we’ve divided into three groups. Most of them, thirty-one according to the school enrollment packet, identify themselves as Alaska Native. The remaining seven students include four whites, one Latino, and two who checked off two or more races, though it can safely be said that most people in Nome are two or more races, mainly Alaska Natives and the white settlers from the Gold Rush days.

  Stephen’s class is typical of the “low” tracked language arts/English classes offered at Nome Beltz Junior/Senior High School: they speak the least standard English, are more likely to be raised by a grandparent, and have the darkest skin on average. It’s a good bet they all qualify for free or reduced lunch. Indeed, food is a powerful motivator for this group. At the start of class, I circulate with handfuls of pretzels, and they rush to their seats, pens and notebooks at the ready.

  The boys and I are somewhat adrift on the ocean of English language literacy. Fluently reading—never mind writing a complete sentence without my assistance—proves daunting for many of them. I am the captain of our ragtag ship, forever heading off mutiny. They are considered “struggling learners,” but in reality it’s me who does most of the struggling while they laugh about farts and draw snow machines in their notebooks. Our current writing assignment, the “me essay,” a standard for this age group, demands that they compose anywhere from one to five paragraphs detailing their favorite activities, what they want to be when they grow up, their favorite subjects in school, etc. Most of my students embrace it as an opportunity to do what they love at this age: talk about themselves.

  But Stephen is not most of my students. He doesn’t really talk about much of anything, never mind himself. Most of his communication with me is nonverbal: lifted eyebrows signaling yes, a shrug of his shoulders, a smile, a wrinkled nose, a slight head nod, a pointed finger.

  The low January sun casts a golden light into my classroom’s west-facing windows. Stephen and I confront his run-on list of words, probably four sentences’ worth of writing. I attempt to charm one more sentence from him, to complete one fragment of his thought into standard, written English.

  Say the word essay in the English classroom and students slump in their seats, roll their eyes, and groan NO! And I can hardly blame them. For me the essay is a personal and fluid form of literary prose exploring ideas and linking experiences. But the academic essay demanded by American schools and codified into state standards threatens students and teachers alike to a jail sentence of hyper-structured boredom loosely interpreted as introduction, body, and conclusion. Yeah, sure, such linear papers are easily graded with rubrics. But the truth is no matter how you dress them up in flowery adjective-adorned skirts that twirl and dance with active verbs, no one in real life ever wants to read, or write, these academic assignments, least of all middle schoolers.

  Twelve- and thirteen-year-olds want most to fit in with their peers: How do I look? What do my friends think? Do they like me? As an English teacher I capitalize on my seventh graders’ self-absorption by using the “me essay” as a doorway into the world of academic essay writing. I begin the unit with writings projected onto my digital whiteboard. Previewing student work from years past satisfies my students’ need for peer comparisons. Essays with titles like “Me, Myself, and I” and “All about Me” illuminate our darkened classroom. Invariably they ask, Is this real? Did you make this up? Their interest piqued, we read, talk, and brainstorm. I model my own lists: Hobbies: knitting, bird watching, dog training. Sports & outdoor activities: hiking, biking, berry picking. Reading: mystery novels, historical fiction, field guides. Favorite subjects in school: writing, art.

  I challenge students to find an inspirational quote to begin their essays, something that reflects who they are or what’s important to them. Students in my other seventh-grade classes will excitedly peruse the Internet in their search. Quotations from athletes, pop culture stars, former pres
idents, and Helen Keller all inform their adolescent imaginings of themselves: Life is nothing without friends. Everybody dies, but not everybody lives. Success is often the result of taking a misstep in the right direction. A twelve-year-old will rise to lofty heights given the opportunity.

  But Stephen and his classmates do not subscribe to the introductory “hook” concept. It’s confusing, or it’s boring, or something. After a class hour of distraction while they search Google images for basketball stars leaping into jump shots, not a single boy in this class has a quote, or wants one. They prefer the straightforward beginning: My name is Sam. I am twelve years old. My favorite sport is basketball. I hope for capitals at the beginnings and periods at the ends of sentences, but I’m happy with even the most rudimentary conglomeration of words on paper, sans punctuation. Eventually they, and I, will be judged by the school district, the state, and the federal government on standardized tests that will require their facility of complex language skills. But today we are still just wrangling single words into coherent sentences.

  The State of Alaska English Language Arts standards for seventh grade loom over our word-by-word sentence construction:

  Write informative/explanatory texts to examine a topic and convey ideas, concepts, and information through the selection, organization, and analysis of relevant content…