Shushing

I have never—nor will I ever—shush a child. Okay, let me revise that. I’ve probably shushed a baby, which is pretty much my point. Now I’ll be the first to admit that I wasn’t there at the dawn of time, so I can’t say for sure when this business began, but I can say, unequivocally, that from time immemorial, adults have shushed children, teachers have shushed students and stereotyped librarians in horn-rimmed glasses and pencil skirts have shushed all of us.

“Not I,” I shout, trying to keep the big picture in mind: prioritizing relationships and cultivating a Belonging Classroom. Shushing is downright deleterious to those goals.

I want my students to talk more. I want them to be brave and take risks and say audacious things. I want them to question me, question each other and question what they have taken at face value. When I do get their attention, what I say must be worth interrupting that flow of ideas. I ask myself, Why do I want their attention? Is there another way to impart this information? If their talking is not about our shared work, then How can I make our work more meaningful and engaging? And when I do need their undivided attention, I get it in a way that reinforces my care and respect for them as well as my own joy in teaching them. Laquisha Hall, Baltimore’s 2018 Teacher of the Year, garnered some delightful strategies.

Aside from reinforcing the message that our students are helpless babies, shushing has another dangerous element. The best classroom relationships are among individuals. When I reprimand my students en masse, I’m creating or cementing an adversarial dynamic, one that, given the emotionally tumultuous state of teenagers, could quickly spark a mob mentality. Then I will be shushing…fellow teachers as I find a good place to hide.

Postscript: When I asked the renowned grammarian Uncle Dennis about the subject/verb agreement in the opening sentence, I confirmed that it was not—nor would it ever be—grammatically correct. After sanctioning my usage in the interest of rhetoric, he queried, “Why are you being so picky with such an idiomatic verb?” Why indeed.

The Jewel of Self-Respect

I once heard of a research study that examined commonalities among death-row inmates, which resulted in two consistencies. First, they couldn’t name a teacher who cared about them. Second, they couldn’t remember ever speaking in front of the class.

I’m sure I would have figured out the benefits of affection and oration on my own, but man did it put a fire under my feet. Perhaps that is why I’ve always put such an emphasis on developing students’ skills of extemporaneously expressing what they are thinking and feeling. In my 14 years of teaching, I bet a week didn’t go by without my students standing and expressing themselves in front of their classmates. To be fair, this probably happens in all classrooms, but in mine these tirades weren’t immediately followed with a slammed door and a visit to the principal’s office.

Public speaking is valuable for all the reasons we already know. In my class, it was also a vehicle for my most remembered life-lesson from the first week of school. When a student would stand to present and begin speaking without waiting for a captive audience, I would explain the “jewel.” The jewel is that moment when you are about to listen to a magnificent symphony or opera and the orchestra is finishing warming up. It’s that pregnant pause tucked between the lingering resonance of practice and the genesis of something transformative. “Wait for the jewel,” I’d say. “It’s a way to show self-respect.”

I’ve begun hosting monthly Public Speaking Salons for students ages 10-16. For those of you who would like to follow along at home (or in the classroom) our theme for September is: What’s in a Name? The extemporaneous speech could be about how you got your name, what you like (or don’t like) about it, or even what you want to be called instead and why. The big idea is to think about something meaningful you’d like to convey to your audience. Here are the preparatory resources is recommended order.

TED Talk: Why I Live in Mortal Dread of Public Speaking

TED Talk: TED’s Secret to Great Public Speaking

My blog post: Names Are Sacred

An animated short film: Nivedhan

TED Talk: Not Good with Names - Local Name Customs in a Global Village

Mary Poppins of Education

Mary Poppins has long been one of my four favorite philosophers. Well begun is half done. Enough is as good as a feast. Practically perfect in every way. Well, maybe not the last. But the first two, certainly. I want to be the Mary Poppins of education. I want to swoop in mysteriously, dazzle with my antics and be flagrantly self-possessed without being pretentious. Then, after I’ve ducked out, teachers find that the wind isn’t the only thing that has changed. Teachers feel revitalized and happier. That, more than anything else. I want my work with teachers to leave them happier. From happiness comes everything.

My other favorite philosophers? Mark Twain, Pippi Longstocking and Bob Dylan. I too don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.

Teaching for the Adult My Student Will Be

A former student returns to speak extemporaneously and bestow award given in his honor.

When I’m stuck, I ask myself - often aloud so my students can see what it’s like for a grown woman to experience a quandary - what is the right thing to do. If that doesn’t help, I weigh - again aloud, both for modeling and company - the consequences of my potential actions. I’m a big believer in showing what it means to be a person, flawed and fallible, in the world.

However, there are times when I keep my own counsel. When a decision relates to the essential part of a student, I consider what kind of adult I hope they become. This is why I understand teaching to be “legacy-level” work. These people will be making decisions about my healthcare one day, not to mention the condition of park benches. If I want them to be critical thinkers with compassionate hearts, I have the power to influence that development.

I have a vested interest in my students’ futures because they’ll play a vital role in determining mine.

Why I Want to Be a Catalyst and Not a Consultant

A consultant offers advice, and, as anyone who has ever given advice ever, can tell you, this is some messy business. In my experience on this planet, I’ve found that — almost without fail — people don’t really want my advice. I should clarify. It’s not only my advice that’s not appreciated or desired. In general, human beings don’t like anyone telling them what to do. Even when they ask!

Who am I to tell teachers what to do? I barely tell my students what to do — often to their initial frustration but eventual growth. Instead, I want to be seen as a catalyst, someone whose visit sparks self-discovery and invigoration. I’m great at giving examples (i.e., storytelling) and asking questions — again, to my students initial frustration and eventual growth. I can create an environment that yields a giant crop of “aha” moments. I even get an occasional “Eureka!” if I’m really on my game.

This idea of being a catalyst is what led me to the statement “Teaching Is Fire,” rather than “Teaching Is Lecturing” or “Teaching Is Finger-Pointing” or…well, anyway, you get the point.

"Kids' Brains Are Sponges. Adults' Brains Are Bricks."

This is what one of my students told me one day, and, after I caught my breath, I paused. Crap, I thought. He’s right. Adults’ brains are bricks. Man, those adults, thinking they know everything already, that they’re done, that they don’t need to be down here in the trenches with the rest of us trying to figure out what it means to be a person in this world. That they — wait, hold on a second.

And that’s when it hit me. Double crap. I’m an adult! Albeit, I’m not a very good one —irreverence and tactlessness driving way too many of my actions — but still…

This is a tough brick to swallow. I want desperately to be right all the time. I need it. I need people to think that I’m the smartest, most insightful and most correct person around. I regularly tell my students, “The worst that could happen is that you’re wrong, and if you are, the world will keep spinning.” But, how okay am I with being wrong? Not okay. Not okay at all.

I’m no scientist, but even I know about all the synapses and axions and dendrites in a child’s brain — clicking and clacking away by leaps and bounds, thinking and questioning and wondering. When was the last time I did these things? I thought about adding the word “dendrite” to that previous sentence. I questioned what a dendrite actually was. I wondered if someone who did know what a dendrite was would comment on this post and make me look like an idiot.

Somehow, this doesn’t seem like the same thing.

When It Comes to Professional Development, We Need to Treat Teachers like Children

I’m not sure when “getting treated like a child” got such a bad rap, but I’d like to set the record straight. As a teacher, when it comes to my professional development, I would love to be treated like a child. In our classrooms, students’ needs and interests are considered. We recognize the importance of options, the need for buy-in and the benefits of joy. If they have already mastered a skill, we don’t make them sit there and do it again and again until the rest of the class catches up. Most of all, students (because they’re people) know when something is disingenuous or prescribed.

Let it be proclaimed from this mountaintop (or living room) that I am brimming with excitement and creativity, determined to change the face of teachers’ professional development forever - and for the better - by treating more teachers like children. But first, a nap.