I was watching The Office, the one where Jim pretends to be Dwight, and totally thought of you.
That Radiohead song “Idioteque” came on my Spotify, and I thought of your class.
I was cleaning out my Inbox, and I came across an email you sent me when I first started here. I think I’ll keep it.
There’s something particularly powerful about being thought of.
Think about the last text, tweet, vox, or phone call you got that started with, “Hey, I was just _______ and thought of you.” You can fill in that blank with any mad-lib verb you want (unless it’s like, you know, creepy), and it won’t change the smile forming at the corners of your mouth. In fact, the reference really doesn’t matter as much as the sentiment and the person from whom it comes.
It’s the human connection.
Twice in the last month I’ve spent time with former students, reaching as far back as the class of 2005, who have “thought of me” while working on writing projects. Now, as their former English teacher, there’s little mystery as to why each reached out: writing is my jam, and I published a book.
But, there’s far more to it than that.
Being thought of is the result of a purposeful approach to the time we spend with other people. It happens when we personalize our instruction, our leadership, and our empathy, so that people around us feel something. They may not know it at the time, but such a human investment catalyzes later, causing people to associate the seemingly random with the distinctly specific: us.
Listen, I spend far too much time thinking about leadership and how to improve. But the focal point of such thought is always people, not practice. It’s committing to restorative justice practices with a certain student or two in mind. It’s developing our master schedule with a team of teachers rather than absent of them. It’s creating leadership opportunities for teachers I know I will lose to other positions very soon. It’s considering the importance of #SEL4Adults as I build our PD schedule for the year.
I can’t imagine living an anonymous life, especially one devoted to people. So when you have those fleeting flashes from your subconscious, when a passage from a book reminds you of your 7th grade teacher, when you begin to free associate your world with those with whom you’ve shared even the slightest human connection, tell them.
Rachael said it so matter-of-factly and with such confidence that I almost believed that she had rehearsed that line in front of her mirror, knowing at some point she’d say it to me. It was a perfect analogy, delivered with genuine conviction, to help me understand how her mind works.
And how my mind works so similarly.
We were discussing the recent withdrawal of Carlos, one of her second graders with whom she had developed a close bond. Having worked with him last year, she was wholly aware of how challenging his life was, bookended by two absentee parents. In the middle, a man who had dated Carlos’s mother and, upon her flight from adult responsibility, accepted the role of stand-in father.
But something was off.
Still, Rachael found him in her class again this year and was excited at the prospect of another chance to provide seven hours of stability in his otherwise chaotic life. Despite her natural empathy and maternal instinct, despite countless street-side conversations and calls home, despite my intervention during a formal meeting to discuss attendance, lateness, and academics, one day Carlos stopped coming to school. Later, we’d find out his adoptive family moved amid alarmingly flimsy circumstances.
Her: Can we call over to his new school? Something is off with Manuel (adoptive father). I can feel it. We have to at least alert the school that this child may not be safe.
Me: Sure, I will call over and tell them what we know. But you have to let him go now. You did amazing work with him, but you have to let him go.
Her: Ok, then don’t care about baseball.
Knowing how much I love the game and still obsess over the previous weekend’s at bats or performances on the mound, Rachael practiced what I preach all the time.
She met me on my level.
I can’t turn off my love of the game, I can’t control dreaming about baseball (often under bizarre or losing circumstances), I can’t help but draw analogies between the game and our profession, and I can’t help dreading the day a doctor or my wife tells me I have to stop playing.
So, I can’t simply attach a platitude, or Disney song, to my love for the game and “let it go.”
Nor can Rachael stop caring for students with the same fervor and empathy with which she cares for her own children. She can’t look over at Carlos’s empty cubby or table and be like, “meh, bummer.” She won’t put him into a former student box, tucked away in her consciousness, with the rest of her wistful, mournful, or otherwise transcendent memories of students from days gone by.
It was foolish and short-sighted of me to suggest Rachael flip a non-existent, unrealistic, and aloof switch in the wake of Carlos’s departure. None of us is capable of simply turning off our passion when it becomes inconvenient.
Down by one run last Sunday, I led off the 8th with a strikeout looking (the pitch was high, but still), and I haven’t been able to shake my disappointment since.
Because I care about baseball, and I can’t turn it off.
Though I have yogis in my family, the idea of practicing yoga always seemed foreign to me. If I were going to spend time working out, I would take the barbell over the mat, the “skull-crusher” over the half-pigeon pose. Still, as I got older, something about the local yoga studio kept catching my eye. I convinced myself that it was a challenge, it would be great for my fading core and non-existent flexibility, and it would provide some versatility to my admittedly stale workout routine.
Within minutes of my first “hot” yoga practice, I was hooked. As an all-too-obvious rookie, I spent more time watching than posing during that first hour of my yoga career, and veteran yogis were happy to let me observe while I figured out each pose. I was drawn to the community of breath and movement, and as an anxiety sufferer, the physical routine and overt mindfulness of each session provided a sixty-minute respite from my mind’s insistence on overthinking and overanalyzing. Before long, I felt more comfortable, stronger, and more flexible.
I don’t pretend to know anything about yoga instructor training, but like in any other field, I have to assume some instructors are just better than others. Some are workmanlike. Others are fun. Some are too chatty. Others are too aloof.
Like the proverbial porridge, for me, Leigh is just right. A clever mix of experience and energy, Leigh can somehow tap into the collective personality of the ever-changing cast of yogis surrounding her. She is constantly in motion, employs a session-specific Spotify mix during our practice, and leads each practice with intention.
What makes Leigh special is what she says at the end of each practice. Sometimes she jokes about how hard she was on the class on a particular night. Other times she’ll share an anecdote that she knows will resonate with most of the class. And sometimes she forces us to look inward just as we are about to “take rest” at the end of a practice.
At the end of one particular session, Leigh talked about the difference between “I” and “me.” As a former English teacher, my inner grammarian perked up. However, this wasn’t a grammar lesson. Leigh was about to analogize how each word forms the foundation for our intention, for the way we see the world, and for how we view ourselves.
“I gives. Me takes,” she said.
Think about how often we frame our world as either I or me statements and about the profound difference between the two. Using I is a way of claiming ownership, of affirming our place in any moment or in life, of being an active participant in our own lives. Using me removes us from that space. Me suggests that life is happening to us; it has a selfish connotation, whether we mean for it to or not.
As educators, do we shape-shift that mentality depending on who we are in front of, on what we need in a given moment? Do our personal and professional lives share these pronouns or are they at odds with each other? Are we active (I) or passive (me) participants in our practice and in our relationships with kids and colleagues?
Now, as yoga preaches, I am mindful of how each word shapes my intention, strengthens my relationships, informs my leadership, and makes me a better husband and father. I have Leigh to thank for that.
Sometimes, during a move or a frenetic cleaning session, I’ll come across some of my old yearbooks, poetry, and undelivered love notes. Usually, I’ll read them quickly, marvel at where I was in life when I scribbled (not typed) such words, and then wash out the slightly acidic taste of angst and self absorption with a finely crafted Allagash White.
It’s an unhealthy cycle, indeed.
Now, as I approach my first ever 5th grade promotion with my first ever 5th grade students, I have worn out the backspace button, repeatedly closed the lid to my Chromebook, and played chicken with not writing a speech at all.
Maybe I should just wing it.
The thing about being a first year principal is you only get one shot with that graduating class. Following an incredibly talented predecessor is hard enough, but making a lasting, positive impression on this group of 5th graders in one academic year is nearly impossible.
But, we did it. Together.
We made up handshakes. We took selfies and tweeted them at celebs. We learned what the word “retarded” really means and why it’s not okay to use it perjoratively. We played Moss and 4-Square.
We were met with loss and how to manage grief. We were fans of Stranger Things and disagreed about the true rock gods of the 90s (spoiler: it’s Pearl Jam despite one of my friends always wearing his Nirvana shirt). We were super silly and super serious, each when the situation called for it.
We had “High, High Hopes for a living” and we said goodbye and hello to a full time teacher in the same year. We won our district Track and Field Day, and we lost a little innocence in health class. We developed crushes and frenemies.
We graduate on June 19th, 2019.
Now, if I could only figure out what to write about in this dang speech.
Say what you want about my man Hamlet, but he was one talented actor.
The title character in what is widely regarded as Billy Shakespeare’s finest play, Hamlet is all in knots over a complex vengeance-love-incest-legacy-mortality-honor-also-a-ghost plotline that involves him sorting it all out.
Unsure who he is and who he is supposed to be, Hamlet pledges “to put an antic disposition on,” so no one is really sure if he is, in fact, bonkers. Like all good method actors, Hammie convinces both the audience and the characters that he is, like, really mad. Picture Christian Bale stopping at Starbucks for a Green Tea Frap before he heads home to catch up on laundry all while dressed and acting like Batman.
That’s Hamlet. All. The. Time.
Eventually, Hamlet’s madness, vengeance, and grief get the best of him, and really everyone in the play, and he dies after avenging his father’s death at the hands of his slimy uncle. But the true mark of his brilliance is that we never know where the man ends and the actor begins.
As educators, we’re all Hamlet, at least a little bit, minus all the soliloquies and Oedipal Complex. Every day we are faced with negotiating who we are when we are with our students with who we are the rest of the time. It’s a complex and confusing dance not covered in any undergrad pre-service teaching text.
Nor should it be.
Though many of us may have dabbled as “Octopus #2” in The Little Mermaid Jr. or even shined as Sandy in Grease, we aren’t actors. We’re real people with real lives outside of our schools who have committed to a field in which we’re on a proverbial stage every day.
Aye, there’s the rub!
The most talented and transcendent teachers in our collective past and present aren’t those to whom we couldn’t connect because we couldn’t figure out who they were. Instead, we recall and reminisce about those teachers who were as authentic Monday morning during first period as they were when we bumped into them at the neighborhood Farmer’s Market. They shared who they were with us, they admitted their flaws, they told hilarious tales of self-effacing woe, they connected with us so we could connect with what they taught.
The same is true of leaders. While less on stage than those they mean to lead, Edu-leaders still have to commit to the part. On a delicate fulcrum, we have to commit to leading with authenticity the same way we taught with such an approach. Too formal and distant and we run the risk of alienating our staff as we sit aloft in our towers. Too fun-loving and accommodating and we run the risk of alienating ourselves as our staff runs its own show.
We are all who we are for myriad reasons, and while it’s highly unlikely that one of those reasons is our father was murdered by our uncle causing us to descend into madness, faux or genuine, the students and staff with whom we work deserve our authentic selves.
It’s been just over a year-and-a-half since I committed to a daily writing regiment, to a way of life that looked for reasons to instead of reasons not to. Soon after, thanks to Sarah Thomas (@sarahdateechur) and my EduMatch family, my bucket list was reduced by one after my first book, Level Up Leadership: Advance Your EduGame, hit the virtual shelves.
But it’s the blog, it’s always been the blog, that gets me up in the morning and that helps me see the world as part of an analogous spectrum on which all things education reside.
As we prepare to close out our academic year, I want to reflect on five pieces that resonated most with readers. Because I love barroom debates that start and end with “top 5 _____, go!”, that’s how I’ll frame this reverie. Below are the debut post and the most read, and shared, posts over the past year. Thanks to my readers for commenting, RTing, and connecting with the writing. You’ve all leveled up!
This is the post that started it all. After five months of planning and writing, I decided to push “publish” on my writing career with this piece. I grew up in two houses with ivy prominent around each, so somewhere in my subconscious there, too, was ivy growing.
Faithful readers and friends alike know my unhealthy disdain for edu-catch phrases. So loathsome do I consider them that I devoted an entire piece to their faux-intellectual power to bore. “Closed Door Policy” is a result of that aversion and a promise that the person behind a closed door with me is my singular focus.
I wish I never had to write this piece, and to be fair, I suppose I didn’t have to. But, then again, this not-so-subtle reminder to the collective state departments of education and our ineffectual Madam Secretary of Education is meant to cast a very large, football shaped shadow over that which we are told is important in education: test scores, attendance rates, data points. To one little boy and to one big boy, none of that matters.
Simpy put: this piece is a love letter to my former students. Having been out of the classroom for a full four years when it was written, I thought my kids deserved an homage. I miss my seniors deeply, but I am fortunate to call so many of them friends so remembering seemed more with them than without them.
Look, man, I’m not naive. This post was aided by a kind endorsement from Jennifer Gonzalez (@cultofpedagogy), but that’s just who she is. Still, folks had to click on the link in her RT to see what all the fuss was about. Summative evaluations either need a new PR firm to represent them or leaders willing to insert themselves into such conversations as part of a discussion, not a lecture.
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An unholy confluence of nerves, anticipation, and judgment comes in the form of a Google calendar invite or an automated email from Genesis. Egos and relationships hang in the balance, planks are walked, single shafts of light descend from on high upon the chosen ones.
‘Tis summative season.
Let us all reflect before we click “sign and submit” on the 2018-2019 school year.
Please be seated.
As a first-year principal, I made it clear to our staff that I had a lot to learn. In fact, I admitted early on that I would have more questions than answers. Graciously, they allowed me to grow alongside them. But such transparency could make for imbalanced summative discussions during which I’m reminded of just how little I know, of how far I have to go.
And I’m the one handing out the scores.
The first, and arguably most important, thing I ask teachers to do is reflect on their year through a very specific lens: their most profound student success. In what has become very spooky, in sync timing, my friend Jon Harper wrote about something similar last week. In education, it’s so easy to focus on that which we didn’t accomplish, a series of near misses and if-I-only-had-more-times congealing into a messy mosaic of failure.
So, in my school, we are focusing on the opposite.
Teachers had two distinct reactions to that first question: a faraway smile as they immediately and confidently named their kid or pained conflict as they considered not whom but which because there were so many.
In a few short minutes, the summative nerves went to the back of the line. By putting a face and name to their year, teachers were reminded of their why. And, I assure you, it had nothing to do with a score.
Later, after discussing goals for next year, I told teachers they would never know what comments my superintendent makes during my own summative, and I don’t think that’s fair. Preaching transparency while my own suggestions for growth are “under audit,” as it were, seems snake oil salesman of me, and I’ve never been a good faker.
Part Brene Brown and part Jennifer Gonzalez, I need to be as vulnerable as I ask my staff to be.
So I steadied myself for responses to the next question: how can I get better?
In and among the powerful, thoughtful feedback about communication, discipline, and culture, a funny thing happened.
Can I tell you what you did that I really liked?
I had started to close my laptop when one of my teachers began to tick off parts of my leadership that she really appreciated: providing extra staff meeting time, treating us like professionals, honest feedback, listening to our needs, meaningful PD.
For this, I was not prepared.
Sometimes I have trouble making eye contact when people say and do kind things in my general direction. In this case, I may have blacked out a little.
The summative discussion needs to be just that. A two-way street with a mindful ebb and flow combined with active listening and human connection. As leaders, if we check the boxes and drone on using edu-catch phrases that only apply to the listener, then we deserve what we get in return: mediocrity, stagnation, and resentment.
Leaders are part of every teacher’s equation, so we must be a part of their sum(mative).
I stared down at that page for what seemed like hours. I could read what was in front of me, but I just could not make sense of it. What came next was truly humiliating.
Mr. Kulak. Are you okay? I can ask someone else, came the squeaky, 7th grade voice.
I’m sorry. I think you should, came my defeated reply.
I slid the math worksheet back over to the study hall student who had just asked for help. His unanswered request for help hung in the air for a second and then disappeared. The next unanswered question was for whom that exchange was more uncomfortable.
Though I had long since resigned myself to the fact that my relationship with math had been one-sided, dysfunctional, and emasculating, I hadn’t been asked to face down such a demon in public for over twenty years.
Despite the research about growth mindset, grit, and resilience, I’m not a “math guy.” I’ve made peace with it. I’ve laid it to rest. I’ve moved on with my life.
Because of writing.
From poorly constructed tales of time travel and shape shifting to summative evaluation narratives, from love letters to welcome back emails, from birthday cards to #bekind thank you notes, I have been writing for over thirty years.
Make no mistake, the writing isn’t always polished. In fact, in many cases, it’s been downright cringeworthy. It’s been full of emotive gobbledygook, misplaced modifiers, and passive aggressive angst. It’s been unread, unresponded to, and unimpressive. It’s been crumpled up, moved to the trash folder, forwarded to the inbox of a superior.
But it’s also changed the shape my leadership. It’s changed my life.
The first communication I had with my wife was in writing.
I expressed my interest in joining a leadership team in writing.
I wrote love letters to my unborn daughter while we waited for her to join us in the world.
My family is notorious for the pride we take in what we write to each other in birthday cards.
When I left the classroom, a dear friend and mentor got me a gift, a pen-holding paper weight, inside of which she wrote on a yellow sticky note: Remember you are a writer.
My notes to staff, both formal and informal, are unique, personal, and thoughtful. Like each of them.
Too often when we consider our weaknesses, we do so without the inevitable yin to that yang.
The same is true for our students and for our teachers.
#ColleagueCorner is an occasional series which reminds us that our greatest resource is each other. Through human connection and shared experience, these stories provide us a glimpse into our colleagues’ world, a world we all share as educators.
Jenn Floyd is an excellent teacher. Rather than play superlative roulette, I’ll just leave it at that. Her 2nd graders experience, rather than simply receive, education. From countless, creative ways to deliver content to well-timed, deeply personal random acts of kindness, Jenn is the foundation on which elementary schools are built. She’s also on her way to an educational leadership degree, so I’ll need to soak it up because she’ll be leading her own school very soon.
If you’re anything like me, you’ve spent the last few months cynically rolling your eyes at celebrities’ “10 Year Challenge” photos as you scroll through your social media feed. Are we all going to just turn a blind eye to the amount of filters these pictures contain and reply with heart-eyed emojis instead? I’d much rather keep my “glory days” behind me, wrinkles under concealer, and roots under the occasional touch up of hair dye.
That is, until Read Across America Week this year.
Like any typical elementary school, the first week of March includes a sea of red and white striped top hats roaming through the building while celebrating Dr. Seuss’s work. Throughout the week, students and staff lined the halls for a school-wide reading hour, teachers swapped classrooms to read their favorite books, and parents brought in green eggs and ham – and my favorite French Toast casserole – during our renowned “Books and Breakfast” celebration. Points for crazy hats, wacky socks, and pajamas were tallied and tweeted as classrooms worked together to show their Seuss spirit.
During one particular event, high school students joined each elementary class to share their love of Seuss. As I welcomed the former students through the main entrance of our building, one familiar smile jumped out at me. As I showed him the way to my second grade classroom, I had an immediate flashback to a time during my student teaching practicum – 10 years ago.
Sitting in front of a group of second graders as a twenty-something practicum student was both nerve-racking and a dream come true. My cooperating teacher gave me my first task: class read aloud. Not bad, right? Each day after lunch, the students sat on the edge of their seats, anxiously awaiting the day’s story.
My cooperating teacher taught me all of her read aloud tricks – including editing Junie B. Jones when her responses were a little too fresh and modifying character names when they were too much of a tongue twister. What I wasn’t prepared for was the slew of dinosaur names discussed in Magic Tree House: Dinosaurs Before Dark. Needless to say, there were no strategies to avoid the words introduced in this book’s adventure.
Pteranodon has a silent p, right?
One day, as the students waited for the twists and turns that Jack and Annie would face during their journey, I found myself on an adventure of my own. Luckily, one student in particular was well versed in dinosaur and quickly came to my rescue like a scene straight out of Jurassic Park.
“It’s Ter-an-uh-don,” Noah stated, as I stumbled over the first few syllables. Surprised – and a bit relieved – I quietly acknowledged his help and continued on.
As you would expect, the Pteranodon was a main character in the story, and the word came up quite often. Each time I began mumbling the letters, he would quickly jump in. “Ter-an-uh-don,” he would repeat, time and time again.
Well-prepared questions and thoughtful conversations aside – this was the moment that stuck.
10 Years Later this high schooler was now the one sitting in the teacher’s seat with his favorite Dr. Seuss themed book in hand: The Cat in the Hat Knows a Lot About That: All About Dinosaurs. After sharing his memory of me, in his second grade classroom, and his love for the species – that stemmed back to his childhood – he began to read. My students sat on the edge of their seats as he read every rhyme, displayed the colorful pictures, and shared the importance of the glossary in the back of the book. We then snapped a few pictures for Twitter and said our goodbyes.
This former student and the read aloud moment that stuck with me has inspired me to begin my own 10 Year Challenge:
Rather than getting bogged down by the next big thing in standardized testing or losing yourself in the endless piles to grade, spend the next 10 years focusing on those small moments within your classroom – and within your life – that will always make you smile.
The next 10 will be gone before you know it, and unlike the latest trends or pop culture icons, the meaningful moments can never be photoshopped.
Jenn Floyd (@floyd4edu) spends her days in second grade in Collingswood, NJ, where it’s cool to be kind. She has a Masters in Reading Specialist/Literacy Coach and is currently working toward a degree in School Administration at Rowan University. When she’s not counting words for her annual NaNoWriMo writing club, you can find Jenn, and her husband Zach, checking out the best local bookstores and ice cream shops that the east coast has to offer.
At some point, we’re going to run out of music. The chords, progressions, riffs, beats, and melodies will all be used up. There won’t be silence, per se, but we’ll have heard the last new music meant for our ears. I suppose, then, we’ll just start over.
The funny thing about music is its slavery to itself. Everything is derivative, each generation owing to another’s brilliance and transcendence. Barguments over the greatest bands ever pay homage to those whose imprint is timeless (Stones, Zeppelin, Beatles) and to those who changed the course of the industry (Queen, Pearl Jam, Wu Tang Clan). Those same conversations often spill over into nostalgia and reverie, the kind that gives you goosebumps and puts you squarely in the arena with the people closest to you when you saw that band live.
We pine for the days when and for the kind-of-frontman who, and then we put on our favorite tracks, on whatever device is nearest to us, and disappear with the music. But we don’t think about the music ending. We don’t perspire as a fictional use by date approaches. We don’t throw our hands up and prepare for the silence.
We keep listening.
Because the music isn’t going to die.
Neither is public education.
The cyclical nature of music is mirrored by the cyclical nature of education. Combining a perpetual been-there-done-that old guard with a have-you-tried-this-new-thing-called excitement, each field provides a significant and momentous choice: accept that change is coming or deny its existence.
From Twitter to Flipgrid, Buncee to Ted-Ed, our newest teachers are experiencing and changing education in ways many of us couldn’t have imagined as recently as ten years ago.
Connected educators need only to pick up their phone or open their laptop to access relevant, real-time PD.
Children around the world are meeting and learning with and from each other through Skype or Flipgrid.
Professors are building social media into their pre-service teaching curriculum.
Leadership programs are espousing the importance of self-care and social-emotional learning.
So whether you’re dusting off that old 8-track or scrolling through the new releases on Spotify, the music will always be there, simultaneously changing and remaining the same.