Maybe it’s caused by some malevolent sprite with a penchant for moving violations.
Maybe it’s my own posture as I intermittently slouch (after a long day of, well, slouching) and sit straight up so I can scream-sing the lyrics to Dinosaur Jr.’s “Get Me.”
Maybe the dang thing needs to be fixed, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.
Whatever it is, my Jeep’s rear view mirror is causing an existential crisis.
The windshield-rear view mirror provides the clearest metaphor for life despite each’s dichotomous utility. Forcing us to simultaneously hurtle toward an unknown future at varying speeds while constantly (read: obsessively) checking for what’s behind us. A flaw in either distorts our reality to the point at which driving can become unsafe.
It’s a trip, man.
So here we are. Cruising toward the one year Covidversary at a cool 55 mph, just trying to avoid the myriad distractions, frustrations, and anxieties in front of us, like a perverse version of the classic video game Paperboy. Still, our rear view mirror hangs at the fringe of our periphery, daring us to peek at what we just left behind.
But here’s how we flip the script on the metaphor: the rear view mirror must be used as a sort of visible wormhole allowing us to course-correct what lies on the other side of the windshield.
We need to rethink state testing. We need to reframe our social studies and history curricula. We need to reconsider the length of our school day. We need to review what social justice means to and for our community. We need to reenvision public education.
Or we choose to disregard everything our collective rear view mirrors have taught us since last March.
Good evening! Welcome to Nothing As It Seems, an educational leadership class designed to provide a practical dance partner to the theoretical. Here’s a brief outline of what to expect this semester.
Course Description: This graduate level class is designed to address edu-leadership issues about which we rarely speak. From the taboo to the absurd, future leaders will experience edu-leadership through anecdotes and empathy.
To pull back the curtain on educational leadership theory
To develop useful communication skills for use with crazy people
To challenge candidates to accept the human side of leadership
To engage in discussion about what once was considered taboo
Unit 1: The 10% Corollary: Accepting That 10% of Any Organization is No Bueno
Guiding Text: Whispers in the Staff Lounge by Mark Lanegan
Focus: Whether it’s the 10th man on a 10 man basketball roster or a small group of staff who wake up each day with the intention to complain, the 10% corollary exists and isn’t going away. This unit will help us develop strategies to work with or, in some cases, ignore the 10% so we can focus on the other 90%.
January 25th-February 12th
Unit 2: Death and Dying On Campus
Guiding Text: We Have Some Sad News by Jeffrey Ament
Focus: From the sudden to the terminal, death and dying on campus are an inevitable part of your leadership career. In some cases, you’ll take on a paternal role for children who lost a parent. In other cases, you’ll serve as a grief counselor for a staff who can’t process the loss of a colleague. In still other cases, it will be your own loss that your staff and community must help you grieve. This unit will help us prepare for loss by first accepting that it’s going to happen.
February 15th-March 5th
Unit 3: Lesson Plans and SGOs Are Stupid
Guiding Text: What Does the DOE Actually Do? by Tanya Donnelly
Focus: All educators have the spectre of a department of education looming over us. Nameless and faceless, the DOE quietly, and often confoundingly, makes bureaucratic decisions for us all the time. Sometimes the DOE graces us with its presence at conferences and delivers new and exciting buzzwords for us to begin using! This unit will help us understand how to work with, and sometimes outside the confines of, the department of education.
Unit 4: Middle Finger Emojis and Other Delightful Communication
Guiding Text: The text for this unit will just be a series of emails I received that may or may not invite me to copulate with myself, border on the criminally insane, or eschew any conventional spelling, grammar, or punctuation.
Focus: The keyboard is a fierce weapon in a war that is often waged in the brain of its possessor. Voicemails left at bizarre hours allow for a responseless audience. Side eye and passive aggressive parking lot discussions keep everyone guessing as part of an interminable and often irreparable conflict. This unit will prepare us for the myriad ways in which communication styles, decisions, and exchanges dictate our leadership.
March 29th-April 16th
Unit 5: In Loco Parentis, Like, For Reals
Guiding Text: Can You Talk to Her? by Chris Cornell
Focus: While we are responsible for our students during school hours, there will be times when you’re asked to literally stand in as a parent. From the at-her-wits-end mom to the completely over-matched single dad, the better you are at your job the more likely a parent will ask you to do theirs for them. This unit will provide strategies for accepting and denying such responsibility.
There will be no grades for this course because we’re all adults, grades are meaningless, and most graduate programs are “A” factories anyway.
As we embark on this unprecedented bizarre frightening school year, we do so, perhaps for the first time ever, on a parallel course with each other. Gone are the days of imagined or tangential shared experience. Ours is now a visceral, often public, and daily collision course with the unknown highlighted by more variables than constants.
But it’s also an opportunity.
During the spring shutdown, I committed to recording and tweeting a short, daily vlog for our community because I wanted the kids to see my face and hear my voice, and I wanted the grown ups to know I was right there with them. So from the mundane to the existential, I turned our separation into connection. After all, our motto at Tatem Elementary School is “We Are All Connected.”
Ahead of Monday’s first day for our kids, I will share a vlog with our community called “Hope and Grace.” Though I realize it sounds like a zany new Thursday night comedy on CBS this fall, the title, and the vlog’s message, has been bouncing around my head for weeks.
The thing about hope is it’s not necessarily a promise or guarantee. While it operates on the idea of something better, it allows for the very real possibility that something better may have already skipped town a long time ago. Still, it’s an abstract concept on which we can build concrete, and very personal, foundations.
As for grace, well, I think my staff is already tired of hearing me talk about its importance for us and for families. But from the absurdity of hard and fast Zoom etiquette rules for every learner to a growing beck and call expectation for teachers, we’ve gotten so far from the power of grace that asking for help or saying no have become synonymous with weakness and selfishness. And that has to stop.
If we are going to move forward, and my school community will, using hope and grace as a mantra (and a shiny new hashtag!) then we have to both personalize and practice each. Hope is what propped my wife and me up during our years long infertility experience. Grace is what I led with when I became a principal, assuring my staff that I need them more than they need me.
Hope and grace are what will get us to the other side of this impossibly long journey we didn’t know we were going to take six months ago.
In a truly cosmic insult-to-injury, my two-year old lawnmower keeps crapping out on me. To make matters worse, the grass in the back of my house grows exponentially faster than the grass in the front, which has created a two-tiered, multi-step lawn maintenance regimen that, frankly, I couldn’t be less interested in.
During quarantine, properties across America have no doubt been manicured in a way that would make The Truman Show community proud because, hell, we have the time. And while I don’t go gaga over a freshly cut and edged lawn, I can appreciate the work it takes to maintain my property. After all, I’m in full control of that maintenance in a time when our control has largely been usurped by the virus.
So the fact that my stinkin’ mower decided to only work the equivalent of a long hockey shift before shutting down has been maddening at best. I tried charging the battery more often. I tried charging the battery less often. I tried changing the height of the blades. I tried only mowing in sub-90 degree weather.
And I kept failing.
Finally, I read the instructions (total dad move to do that last), and voila! I had been working the mower too hard.
See, the mower can only cut as fast and efficiently as it is designed to. But because I can only work as fast and efficiently as I am designed to, the mower and I, well, we’re not bros.
Shortly after that discovery, a staff member called, likely to discuss the myriad unrealistic reopening expectations placed on NJ public educators.
“You need to slow down. I’m worried about you,” she said.
“I’m fine. There’s just so much to do,” I told her.
“Listen to me. You have to slow down. You can’t work this much and be healthy.”
The call came about a week after our staff meeting, which I opened by telling our staff that I’m not going to pretend all is well and that if we all stick together we’ll get through this. Because platitudes are weak and reductive. Especially now.
I told them that I am struggling. I told them I haven’t written. I told them I wasn’t excited about the opening of the MLB season.I told them my anxiety is through the roof. I “joked” that at least I can count on my Lexapro.
That’s how I realized that I have become The Lawnmower Man.
But instead of my mower not keeping up with the frenzied pace that I set for it, I can’t keep up with the frenzied pace I set for myself.
If we’re going to lead in the age of COVID, we’re going to have to work harder than we ever have. But part of working harder is working smarter.
The first time I saw Dumb and Dumber, in a cold theater during my senior year of high school (1994), I didn’t laugh once. In fact, I wanted to leave. I don’t know if it was the company I kept on that night, if I was feeling sorry for myself because the movie I wanted to see was playing next door, or if I thought I was above the raunchy, slapstick material, but neither Jim Carrey nor Jeff Daniels was getting a smirk from me.
Because it was about me.
But a funny (literally) thing happened a couple years later when I saw the film again. This time I wore out the pause button on my remote because I was laughing so hard that I had to stop to make sure I didn’t miss the next gag. From the one liners to the absurdity of the script, I was all in, like SeaBass and those boilermakers.
And though many scenes stand out (this one made me cry, in fact), it’s an easily overlooked scene that serves as the impetus for this post.
Because it’s about other people.
Forget the almost anachronistic phone booth and focus on this hilarious interplay between these two characters. One guy is on the phone; another guy wants to use the phone. Simple enough.
If you listen closely, you can hear all the empaths around the world screaming, “Told ya!” But, you know, really politely.
COVID has forced us into one of two cocoons. The first is wound tightly by a spool of self-preservation and narcissism. After all, if no one else is going to grab another bottle of sanitizer, why shouldn’t I grab a tenth?
The second is hyper focused, though still enshrouded in relative safety, on the concept of, wait for it…other people. Stuck in a paradoxical loop of I’m-okay-but-what-about-my-aging-parents-or-all-the-health-care-workers-and…you get the idea.
Both are satirized in the Dumb and Dumber scene because even though the man outside the booth uses the concept of other people as a way into the phone booth he is still fueled by a self-serving motivation to get inside and make his call. The man on the inside is going to take his sweet old time because, hell, he was there first.
That, my friends, is how we arrived at a Dumb and Dumber society.
Still, as it so often does, it takes something horrific to make us realize we’re not in this alone. The world, in large part, has chosen to come together to celebrate other people rather than to ask “what about me?” School parades, nursing dance parties, global concerts, and, thanks to Jim Halpert, a weekly news segment focused on all that is good in the world have widened a once myopic camera angle. All we have to do is adjust how we look through it.
When we do, man, there will be a lot of other people looking back.
It’s a big day, Leaders! 100 blog posts! However, under the circumstances, celebrating seems a bit tone deaf, but I would like to thank my faithful readers. Meeting with and learning from people all over the world has changed my career in a way that I’m not sure I fully understand yet. Thank you!
In the pantheon of silent communication symbols, few can rival OGs like peace, love, eye roll, peekaboo, and wink. Each is a universally accepted way of conveying that which stands on its own without benefit of a verbal qualifier. Sure, the context may change depending on the communicator (an eye roll from a 10 year old student carries with it a far different message than, say, one from your 94 year old nana), but make no mistake, wordlessness is a language all its own.
Even in the wake of our new digital, often pixelated, can-you-hear-me? communication style, an old dog has learned a new trick.
The shoulder shrug has become the universally understood response for any COVID based question from our friends, families, and communities.
How are you guys holding up?
Do you have any questions about how to connect to Zoom?
When do you think we’ll go back to school?
What day is it?
In a time during which we are obsessed with being in the know, with being the first to break a story we saw on Twitter, with having a hot take on the NFL draft, the latest White House “press briefing,” or the state of humanity itself, it’s perfectly okay to defer to our baser instincts and just shrug.
Because the truth is even the people who are supposed to know, the ones with that pesky MD after their names, don’t even know what is happening. Then there are those who pretend to know what is happening and are convinced that if they say what they think loudly or often enough it will become true. Finally, there’s the rest of us: the shruggers.
Look it’s perfectly fine to not know the answer to questions big and small. One time my son asked me if vampires sneeze. C’mon, bruh! But the difference between the non-shruggers and the shruggers is the former is convinced that there’s only one answer to every question. The latter is willing to accept that even all the answers aren’t all the answers.
So come with me, shrugging friends! There’s a whole world of questions on which we need to remain non-committal!
It’s funny. The last post I wrote before this new normal was entitled, “Bad Feeling,” yet it had nothing to do with the virus’s inevitable collision course with what used to be our everyday lives. Maybe I’m psychic. Maybe it’s Maybelline.
In any case, it’s been a cool six weeks since I’ve written anything of value. Caught between trying to do everything I can for our families, working with my own children, and convincing myself that I am doing neither, I swapped out blogging for daily video reflections.
And then I rediscovered “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”
Though I could probably recite the fairy tale by heart, I couldn’t help but apply it to our current controlled chaos. Moreover, the story, though so simple, has inspired parallels in everything from business to statistics to developmental psychology. The Goldilocks Principle, The Goldilocks Fit, and The Goldilocks Effect all borrow from the fairy tale to make sense of that which needs explanation.
In education, even in the most certain, stable, and safe of times, the analogy fits as neatly as Goldilocks herself fits into Baby Bear’s chair. We consider all the ways in which we can help children, find the best fit for each, and then apply that fit. If something is too easy or too hard, we do our best to make it just right. Sometimes we do, sometimes the chair breaks right out from under us.
So we try again.
What we most often forget or refuse to consider is the Bear Family itself. On an otherwise normal day, their lives are disrupted by an uninvited guest whose only motivation is what fits her perfectly. Forget the overt invasion of the Bears’ home and routine. Forget the unsanitary way in which Goldilocks eats from each bowl of porridge. Forget the broken chair she leaves in her wake as she tests out each bed before settling in Baby Bear’s.
What about the Bears?
Our families, like the Bears, are trying to establish their own new normal after an uninvited guest shows up. Parents are forced to allow us into their homes through Zoom, Meet, Dojo, or worksheet, and then are forced to adapt to us rather than us to them, a model that is centuries old. For some, what we ask for is too easy; for others, what we ask for is too hard. But getting it “just right?” Well, that’s a fairy tale.
The reason we need to align ourselves with the Bears, not that malignant narcissist Goldilocks, is it’s the Bears who have to keep on keepin’ on (or whatever it is that bears do) regardless of what Goldilocks did to disrupt them. Once she’s gone, new porridge has to be made, the spoons need to be cleaned, the broken chair needs to be replaced, and each bed’s sheets need to be washed.
Friends: we have to resist becoming Goldilocks.
There are far too many bears in far too many forests (with far too many human-like qualities) to think that we, like Goldilocks, are superior.
We can tell a lot about a movie based on its use of banal, tired catchphrases. For some of us, we can even mouth the words as they are about to be said. They’ve become so hollow, so stale that they serve as a punchline, rather than a tagline.
I’m too old for this sh!t. (Buddy cop film)
What are you doing here? (romantic dramedy)
We can do this the easy way or the hard way. (Crime thriller)
Is that all you’ve got? (Big budget summer film probably starring Will Smith)
I mean it’s like the screenwriter isn’t even trying.
Think, then, about your leadership catchphrases. What might you say with the same ease as mindlessness when working with your teachers. How might your observation feedback read like a script written by a first year NYU film student? Ask yourself if you could copy and paste feedback from one teacher to the next.
The teacher planned her lesson well. (Domain 1)
The teacher has good rapport with his students. (Domain 2)
The teacher used formative assessment. (Domain 3)
The teacher reflected on her lesson. (Domain 4)
I mean it’s like you’re not even trying.
And I understand that all school leaders aren’t created equally. Expecting all feedback to be deeply personal, poeticaly worded, and free of platitude is unrealistic and unfair.
Still, much like the excitement of sitting down to a movie you can’t wait to see, teachers deserve the same effort from us that moviegoers deserve from screenwriters. Minimally, they need to feel like their time wasn’t wasted, like they weren’t a box waiting to be checked.
Ideally, they walk away from a post-observation conference or impromptu chat feeling something about the feedback you’ve given.
Otherwise, you run the risk of teachers muttering their own catchphrase before every interaction with you.