I used to hate the term "teaching style."  Often, it had to do with the context of the conversation.  One would say, "that's just his teaching style" to justify snide remarks or angry outbursts or stacks of worksheets.  The term seemed to derive from a misconception that we, as educators, do not share a base of common professional knowledge.

Style?  It felt like a word used to describe clothing or dancing or perhaps cooking.  However, teaching had a more theoretical underpinning that transcended mere style.  If education is a science, this might make sense.  One rarely hears of a "urologist's style" or a "biologists" style of the style of pretty much any profession that ends in the suffix -ist.

Except artists.  Artists have a distinct style, despite sharing a distinct theoretical set of knowledge.  So do writers and poets and speakers.  So do musicians and counselors and politicians and pastors. In fact, "style" seems to be a word applied to any human endeavor and teaching is, at its core, a human endeavor.

This doesn't mean that all styles are effective. One can criticize music, not simply because it doesn't fit your taste, but also because it is bad music.  Similarly, one can criticize the style of a counselor who fails to help people or a poet who only uses trite phrases or a historian who spins narratives that don't have any nuance.

The reality is that all teachers have a style.  Call it an approach or a method or even, on some level, a personality.  But when I walk into a classroom, I cannot deny that beyond the science and the strategies and the documentation of what works, there is the style; and, though I can't prove it scientifically, I have a hunch that teaching style might just be the most powerful force in shaping the learning in a classroom.

Joel tells me, "I know how to spell cell phone."

"Spell it for me."

"S E L F and then F O N E."

The spelling might be wrong, but the definition is perfect.

Just about every trendy hipster person I know has read Eats, Shoots and Leaves and enjoys The Oatmeal's explanations on grammar as well. My guess is that it fits into a few key trendy hipster values:

1. A chance to feel better / look down upon others. This is especially true with grammar geeks (like myself, who is sort-of Trendy Hipster Light) who were frowned upon by peers during their childhood.
2. A chance to engage in an art that is vastly becoming irrelevant. Like learning shorthand, speaking Old Norse or having a typewriter on hand, learning grammar lets trendy hipsters engage in a geeky endeavor that lacks any real practical element.
3. A chance to be ironic, or when that fails (often) a chance to find unintended humor. Once you master grammar, you can mock the subtle irony found in signs, in books and in music. So, I can laugh aloud when the football announcer mentions that "Philadelphia literally has an explosive offense" or "The Giants literally destroyed the Cowboys." Nope, despite my initial hopes, the Cowboys are still a football team.

I have a hunch that trendy hipsters will not procreate as much as other segments of the population. Which is too bad, honestly, in terms of language lovers. However, in the long run, they might just be the very subgroup that keeps grammar intact.

What really drives people to do the things they do? Why do we act the way we act?  What are the cultural misconceptions about motivation versus the scientific facts?  The following is by no means an exhaustive list, but it seems that the major theories include:

1. Humamnist Psychology - In particular, William Glasser brings up the need for autonomy, for safety, etc.
2. Intrinsic Motivation Theory - the idea espoused by guys like Alfie Kohn who demonstrate why behaviorism fails and intrinsic, internal motivation is the answer.
3. Extrinsic Motivation Theory - in particular the ideas of Skinner and the concepts of reinforcements
4. Evolutionary Biology - I've seen logical explanations regarding how people act related directly to evolutionary biology and the primal needs we have.
5. Social Behaviorism / Sociology - think of the works like The Paradox of Choice or Predictably Irrational.  It's the idea that social forces and our immediate environment shape how we act.
6. Cultural Anthropology - the way we act is heavily influenced by our cultural values and the norms we internalize
7. Psychoanalytic Theory - everything from the subconscious to the ideas of Freud through the notion of temperaments and the various interpretations of

Okay, way too textbook of me, but I'm getting somewhere I hope. When I look at the list, I'm reminded of the sage in the past who wrote, "the human mind is deceitful above all things and beyond cure.  Who can understand it?" Perhaps before espousing a particular view on motivation, we should begin with the notion that the mind is a mystery.  Don't get me wrong, I enjoy reading social behaviorist books and cultural anthropology and Alfie Kohn and even William Glasser.  I'm a geek.  I get it.  It's just that motivation is a nuanced topic.  No one (not even Daniel Pink) has the topic down all the way.

Case in point:  something really basic.  I generally drive really safe. When I drive safely, I am motivated by:
1. Humanist Psychology - In particular, the drive for safety that Glasser mentions

2. Intrinsic Motivation Theory - No one pays me to drive well.  I do it out of a sense of desire to do the right thing regardless of rewards. 

3. Extrinsic Motivation Theory - I want to avoid getting a ticket. So, there's a little Skinner there I guess.

4. Evolutionary Biology - I want to stay alive so I drive in a pack.  Call it evolutionary biology, but I have a need to adapt to my environment in a symbiotic relationship. 

5. Social Behaviorism / Sociology - The driving environment shapes how I drive.  The availability of choice, the notion of framing and several other facts influence how I drive. (I could argue for Social Learning Theory here as well) 

6. Cultural Anthropology - My whole concept of driving (and the symbolism, totems, mores) is based upon my cultural values and heritage

7. Psychoanalytic Theory - I'm sure there is something subconscious that goes on in driving.  I just don't know it since it is, well, subconscious. 

All of this to say that the real fun of studying motivation isn't in figuring out a new system or in figuring out which camp you belong to.  It's in seeing multiple perspectives and understanding how each viewpoint helps create a more realistic, holistic concept of motivation. 

If choice is defined only in terms of agree with the politicians and sell out your beliefsordisagree with the politicians and face career suicide then it really isn't a choice at all

Each August, I make a prediction about the school year.  I attempt to read the situation and describe the story arc before it has begun.  Call it a coping strategy.  Or maybe just a good reading strategy.  If this were a standardized test, I'd be one step ahead.  But it's life and the predictions are nearly always incorrect.  

I assumed, in my first year, it would be the story of blazing a new trail.  Instead, it was a search for meaning and a battle against inadequacy.   In the second and third years, I believed it would be a search for mastery when, in fact, it was the story of trying to do something authentic in the midst of a culture of fear and standardization.  In the fourth and fifth years, I assumed it would be a battle against "the system" and it turned out to be a story of learning to serve and to listen and to be humble.  It was the story of working, for the first time ever, as a team.  Last year, it was the story of a battle against irrelevance, as I experienced an easy year of being "just the computer guy" when, in my soul, I wanted to know students well.  

This year, I had grand ideas of the story.  I thought it would be the story of getting to know my students deeply and taking them on a journey of service learning.  Instead, it has been the story of balance - whether it is balancing ideas on curriculum, balancing the home life and school life or balancing my own views against the pressures from the system.  It's been a fight to maintain equilibrium.  

Sometimes I wonder if a part of teacher burn-out is that people get disappointed that the story isn't the one they signed up for.  They fight to maintain their previous story, instead of grieving it and embracing the one in front of them.  "I didn't sign up to be a robot," they might say, rather than, "I'm fighting an impersonal, robotic zombie trying to turn me into a robotic zombie.  How do I make sense out of this conflict?"  

In many respects, I have had a rough year.  On the surface, it looks like I'm thriving.  The data suggests this.  The visitors believe this, too.  It's not exactly a "struggling teacher." But inside, I've been knocked down a few times, both by my own inadequacies and by situations outside of my control.  If I was clinging to the story of "build a tight community of service-minded students" I would have quit by now.  Instead, I pull myself back up, find my balance and move forward.  That's my story this year and I want to live it well. 

An Escalade cuts off a Hummer.  No, a man in an Escalade cuts off a man in a Hummer.  I forget, while driving, that there are people behind the machines.  Both cars begin cutting one another off, weaving through traffic and barely missing the jay-walking pedestrians that make 19th Avenue so distinct.  Finally, the man in the Hummer pulls into the Fry's parking lot and man in the Escalade joins him.  Shouting ensues, until one of the guys pulls a gun and waves it maniacally.

It's not so much that the men don't have respect for human life so much as they don't, in the moment at least, believe in death.  And when death feels like make-believe, you tend to discredit life.  You start to believe that your huge hunk of metal is an extension of yourself and that driving is a game to be one, complete with "playing by the rules" and "not letting him get away."

*      *      *

At Thanksgiving, Micah asks me, "Where's Aunt Beverly?"

He notices that Uncle Charlie is alone and he senses that something is different.  I am tempted at first to use a euphamism like "passed on" or "left us" but instead I tell the truth.

"She died yesterday."

"Does that mean she's not coming back?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"But I like her.  She's fun. She smiles."

It's a three year old's eulogy and although it doesn't capture all that she was, it certainly captures a part of her that I will remember.  If Micah has taught me anything about life and death, it's that people matter.  I used to believe that life was a story and there were minor characters.  Now I see it as an overlapping of stories, not with minor characters, but with major characters that I never got the chance to know as well due to time and space.

Micah's right.  I miss Beverly's smile on Thanksgiving.  She was the first family member to giving me the passing grade when Christy first introduced me years ago. I remember that we talked about Van Morrison of all things, because even though we didn't have much in common, she wanted me to feel like I mattered.

*     *     *

When I genuinely believe that death is real, I have an easier time believing that life matters.  It shapes how I treat people.  It shapes how I teach students.  It changes how I approach taboo subject of death that is so present in biology and in history and literature. It shapes the way I listen to students as they subtly share their own stories.

Sometimes, though, I forget about death and I think to myself that it's something "far off."

I have family members who still won't talk to me, because of a blog I wrote mocking the values of suburbia.  While I apologized repeatedly, they lobbed insults in response and eventually we cut ties.  These are not distant relatives, but a brother and a sister I grew up with.  I think we all postpone reconciliation because we all believe that death is far-off or make-believe and in the moment, we might as well be brandishing guns in a parking lot.

Still, I think of death often.  It's not a morbid fascination with the subject, either.   It's just that as I go about living, I often ask myself, "Does this matter in light of death?"  So, I rarely clean baseboards (I've never heard of deathbed conversations about baseboards) and I don't watch a ton of television and I rarely turn down a coffee or a pint with a friend.  I'll always turn down a committee, because a game of catch or a sunset or a meal is waiting for me at home.  

I allow students to doodle in my classroom.  It's rare that I lecture, but when I do, I expect some students to sketch their own pictures.  As long as the pictures aren't in permanent marker and on my tables, it's fine with me.

For what it's worth, I do the same thing.  Even in a staff meeting where I will raise my hand, participate, listen intently and even engage mentally, I still need the tangible act of drawing.  Call it a distracted introvert's comfort blanket, but when I don't draw, I don't pay attention.

Doodling is allowed.  Drinks are allowed.  Pencil tapping is allowed (though I sometimes ask a pencil-tapper to move away from students who are easily distracted). I'd love to allow food and music as well.  For me, the ultimate question guiding "Is it allowed?" should be "Does it inhibit learning?"  If it's not getting in the way of learning, allow it.

I hold my hands under the warm water and close my eyes for a moment.

Slow down. 

I visualize my to-do list and consider itemizing the list into categories.

Life isn't found on a list. 

As I scrub the leftover gunk of chicken and dumplings, I am reminded that the meal was an act of love.  Christy probably smiled and cried and thought about her aunt while she prepared the meal to deliver to hospice.  And now, as she runs to Walgreens to develop the film for the collage of pictures, she does so with a sense of satisfaction.  Her day is busier than mine, but she somehow embraces it.  All of it.

Christy doesn't keep lists.  She just does what needs to be done and she does it without complaining.  It's not a stoic mindset, either.  It's just that she doesn't live by the mindset of "work now and play later."  On some level, work is play for her.  Give her a week off and she'll build something or plant something or fix something or bake something.

I used to hate doing dishes, but now I enjoy it.  It's my think time.  It's a moment away from the abstract, where I feel something tangible.  When I step back and stare at a clean kitchen, it feels . . . meaningful.  It feels like an accomplishment.

I used to hate grading until I realized that it's my chance to get to know students on a deeper level.  I used to see it as the "paperwork" that I endured so that I could still do the fun part.  Now I see it as fun.  Strange, I know, but I enjoy assessing student work.

So, I finish the dishes and begin folding laundry.  I enjoy the moment, because it's meaningful.  It's a small act of love.  It's a chance to accomplish something that actually matters.  Brenna interrupts the laundry and so I feed her lunch.  I could rush through it, but instead I talk with her, laugh with her and make sound effects for each bite.

I often quote a line from a sage of the past, "A man can do nothing better than to eat and to drink and to find satisfaction in his work."

People hear this and say, "Oh yeah, eat drink and be merry.  Thanks for the reminder."

But the last part is critical, too.  I need to find satisfaction in my work.  It's not a curse.  It's not the crap I do so that I can have fun later.  It's a part of what makes life meaningful.  It's part of the good life.

Micah turns away from the movie and says, "Look, the sky is on fire!"

As Joel runs outside, he says, "It just looks like it's on fire."

It doesn't matter.  Micah ignores him and stares at the sunset.  Joel, drops the argument, too.  And me?  I can't stop looking at them looking at the sunset.

Most of the city is probably missing it.  Maybe Twitter or Facebook.  Probably t.v. reruns - which is too bad, because I've never seen a rerun of a sunset.  It's not that they're wrong and maybe even not all that misguided in choosing their digital realities.  Still, they're missing it.  The sky is on fire and most people will miss it.

I used to believe that God painted sunsets just for fun and maybe because he wanted to share it with us.  Perhaps a little sacrilegious, but I saw him like a kid excited to toss a painting on the fridge.  Then I saw it as the aftermath of pollution and I laughed at my childish misconceptions.  Then, at some point, I began to see it as an act of redemption, as a sign that something beautiful can come from something ugly.

I don't want to miss the beauty because I'm too busy planning out the next day or because I'm too worried about what fellow teachers think of me or because the baseboards haven't been cleaned in four years and someone we hardly know my arrive and judge us for our lack of antiseptic cleaning habits.

When I was in college, Brad the Philosopher asked me to memorize, "We must seize the opportunity of excited curiosity for the acquisition of wisdom."  I didn't simply memorize that phrase.  I internalized it. It's now a part of who I am.

The vast majority of education reform seems enamored in false binary options. You're either success-driven or you believe in low standards. You're either traditional or you're twenty-first century. You either believe in intrinsic motivation or you are a briber of students.

We have no common metaphors. We have no shared values. Instead, it seems that each side isolates into echo chambers and shouts just to hear the "right answer" shouted back from the tribe that agrees.  When it gets really noisy, we grab megaphones.  When this doesn't work, it turns into a Phil Spector inspired Wall of Sound, where it is just as noisy and artificial, but now it's smooth.  We resort to sloganeering and talking points.

What we lack is humility.  Set down the megaphone.  Walk out of the echo chamber.  Share a pint with someone who thinks you're crazy for authentic learning or traditional learning or unschooling or home schooling or schooling on the large vacuum tubes of the interweb.  Ask more questions and listen a little closer and see what emerges.

I have a friend Kevin who first thought that my ideas on education were insane.  However, in coaching track together, we became good friends.  Religiously, politically and philosophically we were polar opposites. Yet, we asked questions and listened and both of us had a new appreciation for a different approach.  He taught me that procedures were necessary.  I taught him that learning was a relational experience.  We hashed out our education reform over a pint.

When we take the humble approach, what emerges are some common values.  Both sides, even in the midst of screaming matches, care about students.  It's just that both sides get a little scared or sometimes a little proud. I know, because I've been there.  Just ask my teammates at school who listened to a passionate explanation of why my way of organizing the curriculum leads to greater success.

When we engage in meaningful dialog, we are able to see the complexity of the issues and often times arrive at a sense of paradox.  So, it turns out that bad teachers are a part of the problem, but that good teachers need unions to protect their rights. It turns out that twenty-first century learning is important, but that folks like Aristotle and Plato have something important to add to education reform as well.  It turns out that the traditional mindset of learning-as-hard-work is important, but so is the more constructivist idea that learning is inherently interesting, meaningful and perhaps even fun.

Satirical Sunday:

The problem began on the playground, with Scott Jacobsen being taunted and called names.  It progressed over time and eventually spilled out into the neighborhood and the streets.

"I wanted the words to stop, so I asked the school board to help," his mother explained.

The district first installed a verbal word filter in an effort to reduce verbal bullying.  However, the results were mixed at best.  Josh Thompson, head of the district's Verbal Communications Department, explained, "Teachers could no longer say that one side had beat another, since 'beat' was a banned word.  We couldn't ask students to push themselves harder since 'push' was also banned."

Meanwhile, the bullying continued.  That's when the board asked the principal, Sarah Fremont, to take an aggressive stance on verbal-related issues.  She first banned the cafeteria, but parents complained that children deserved a chance to eat. Similarly, they had issues with the locking of restrooms.

The next step involved banning verbal communication altogether.

The curriculum specialist, Dwight Stevens, felt that it was a positive decision.  "At first we thought that social behavior was important, but it turns out that on a purely cognitive level, isolation works out well."

Dan Lopez, a math teacher, enjoys the new policy.  "No more headaches.  I just draw a sample problem on the board and they silently work.  I save my voice and simply pass notes when I need their attention."

Rebecca Anderson shared a similar sentiment, "I thought it would be silent reading the whole time, but man we've had some rousing games of Silent Ball.  And the bullying seems to have stopped."

However, not all teachers are satisfied.  Jorge Gonzalez explains, "I think it's inhuman to ask students to ignore their native communication altogether.  Wouldn't it be smarter to simply teach students what it means to be ethical and kind?"

In the meantime, this is a reform similar districts are considering.  With the increase in verbal bullying in the past few years, critics are beginning to wonder if the human voice is really all that necessary in school.  Silent Schools are beginning to crop up around the nation and already districts are signing up for the Silence Only Conference, which asks schools to consider censoring all forms of speech in every medium possible.

We're lining up to go to art, when a kid says, "You're a Christian, huh?"

"I believe in Jesus, if that's what you mean," I respond.

"I thought so."

"Why?"

"You believe in grace."

I've never talked about my faith in class.  I've never used the term 'grace' either.  But he asks me about grace, because he knows I don't keep the Secret List of Good and Bad Kids.  He knows, if intuively, that my entire view of the universe is influenced by my belief in grace.  Life is an unwarrented gift.  Love is unconditional.  I never say these words, but I believe them to my core.

This isn't to say that it takes a "Christian teacher" to get it, either.  I've met secular humanists with a deeper, richer understanding of grace and redemption than some of the church folk I know.

As I walk away from the conversation, a girl asks this boy "How can you possibly be a Christian?  You're a bad kid."  She says it just like that, too, with words that are no better or no worse.

"If I can't be a Christian, I can't be anything else.  If life comes down to how good I've acted then I'm screwed."

He gets it.

*      *      *

As I write this, Joel says, "Did you know that you can be born twice?"

"What do you think that means?"

"I'm not sure.  Maybe like the orange trees."

I'm not ready to share the Jesus story with him just yet.  I'd rather it come around slowly, with deeper conversations over the years.  I want him to be embrace the questions before he rushes to the answers. In a few moments, we'll head off to a birthday party for my brother-in-law.  I love birthdays.  It's the only time of year I can think of where we say, "I will celebrate you, the person, not the accomplishment, simply because you are still breathing.  You might have screwed up along the way, but you're not dead and for that, let's at least bust apart a paper machet animal filled with candy."

I guess you can't really teach the idea of grace in a teacher's college.  It has a distinctly religious tone to it and maybe it's better that way (or maybe not).  But if I could rewrite the teacher handbooks, I'd begin with grace.  Your job is a gift.  Your identity is a gift.  Your life is a gift.  The fact that you get to spend your days encouraging kiddos to think is a gift.

I'm not sure that grace leads to more productivity, but for what it's worth, I'd rather be grace-driven than data-driven. Real, sustainable change happens when we begin with the recognition that this whole gig is a gift.

"I don't get it.  It all seems like first person to me," a student explains.

"No, sometimes it's the third persona and occasionally there is work using the second person."

"But it's always first person.  Always," he insists.

"Can you explain your thinking?"

"Someone can pretend to be God and know everything, but it's still the narrator's voice.  It's still first person.  You can't escape it."

"But sometimes people want to talk in third person."

"I think that's dangerous.  The only person I know is myself.  Once I move it away from me, I'm pretending that the first person is gone and that my words represent everyone.  I just don't see how anyone knows everyone and everything that easily."

I leave the conversation with the sense that he doesn't have a clear understanding of voice and person and how to decipher language.  Then, as I go back to re-read Henry David Thoreau's Walden, I read these lines, "We commonly forget to remember that is always the first person that is speaking. I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else I knew so well."

Thank you Thoreau for your clarity.  I think I'm starting to get it now.

A parent calls the office complaining about how I disciplined another child.  Not her child, but another one in the class.  The parent is right, but what she fails to recognize is that I apologized to the child, apologized to the class and talked to administrators.

Still, the moment fuels this sense of shame.  Just try harder than this.  Prove that this isn't you.  Go the extra mile and this parent will understand.  Then minutes later, I'm feeling a more fatalistic sense of shame.  You'll always screw up like this.  You can't escape it.  Maybe you should just find a new job.  You can make lattes and carmel milk shakes that pretend to be coffee to the delight of suburbanites in need of a sugar high.  

Within an hour, I'm ready to quit.

Except, when I talk to my principal, he says, "John, I think you're a phenomenal teacher.  If this was something that characterized you, I would have told you.  You'd have letters of direction and teacher improvement plans.  But this isn't you.  This isn't your character."

He didn't give me a list of what to fix.  He didn't tell me a resource I should read.  He didn't lecture me on how to approach discipline differently.  Instead, he affirmed my identity and character and in the process I find it easier to drop the shame monologs.

Burnout isn't simply quitting the teaching profession.  My friend Javi chose a district office position when he was far from burnout.  Meanwhile, I've met teachers who are walking zombies, lacking any passion or purpose as they move through the drudgery of their job.  They're not all veteran teachers, either.  To me, burnout is when someone loses the essence of teaching - that purpose and passion and identity that allow a person to thrive.

Shame is so dangerous, because it takes a shot at the identity, forcing a person to act better and try harder.  Shame often takes a shot at the purpose of education, feeding teachers the lie that the goal is measurable results rather than faithfulness.  Shame screams at a teacher like a red-faced football coach, "Get up you pansy and try harder! Pull yourself up and prove it! Prove that you're better than this!"

People often assume burnout occurs because teachers work too hard, put in too many hours and don't take care of themselves.  Just go to the gym, eat well and you'll be fine. Yet, few people ask why a teacher felt that she had to work so hard, put in so many extra hours and sacrifice a personal life.  My guess is that the root cause is shame.  Shame propels perfectionism.

People assume that burnout happens when teachers just don't care anymore.  I've never met a teacher who genuinely doesn't care.  Instead, the jaded teachers often had a few moments where they were shamed so badly that they hedge their bets so they don't get hurt.  Perhaps a student comment, a parent complaint, a wall of apathy or a cruel rumor pushed them into a place of numb indifference.

So, I'm still a little shaken.  I will teach with a limp for awhile.  But I will not try harder.  I will not create a new plan.  Nor will I quit caring and simply withdrawal from staff and students.  I won't burnout, because I will not allow shame to define my identity as a teacher.

I'm sitting alone at lunch. In a sense, it feels a bit like reliving my first week of high school. Except, I'm  not in the cafeteria and this is actually by choice.  I want to be alone.  I'm not playing music.  I'm not grading papers.  I make no pretense of using this time to be productive.  I'll scarf down a peanut butter sandwich and then I'll work on writing a novel.

It's not that I don't like the teachers in the staff lounge.  I've been in toxic environments, where the staff lounge becomes a punch in the face.  But I like it here.  It's just that, for all of my energy and my outgoing conversation, I'm tired by lunchtime.  I need a half hour of quiet.  It does something for my soul.

Most people don't get introverts.  Or maybe they do get us, but we misinterpret it, because we are pretty likely to project upon others what we see in ourselves.  We need silence.  We crave alone time.  We need space, mental, emotional space to recover our sense of self that can feel stolen by high levels of social interaction.

Sometimes people ask me if all teachers should blog.  To me, this is a no-brainer.  Absolutely not.  I blog, because I write.  I write because it's not an option.  Like silence and solitude, it's a part of what keeps me sane.  Might as well as if all teachers should spend lunchtime in the staff lounge or go to happy hour or visit resource-heavy websites.

It strikes me that for all the emphasis on a Personal Learning Network, I very rarely hear a discussion on the notion of person.  It seems to be more about the network, which I suppose is fine.  But it can feel overwhelming to a guy who needs an acoustic version of "resurrection fern" and a blank Word document to help him stay passionate as a teacher.  While I see the need for a PLN (after all, I created a video about it), I also see the need for a PL.

It's an early Tuesday afternoon and my students are restless after learning to find the surface area and volume of prisms and cylinders.  Even the best students seem detached with the lesson and I overcompensate with high-energy explanations.  Passion isn't bad, per se, but my students can see through me and recognize that my love of literature is not matched with a love of surface area.

I'm not sure what snaps, but I lose it.  Like the incredible hulk, minus the incredible and exchange the green for red.  I should have timed two boys out, but I was too proud and became too loud and I took everything too personal.  During lunchtime in the staff lounge, I talked about quitting altogether.  I've yelled at my class more times this year than in the past two years combined (I never yelled last year).

I'm broken.

I'm pretty honest about that, at least.  When we arrive back from lunch, I try to be detached for a second, but something shifts.

It is personal.

When students talk over me or talk back to me, it's deeply personal.  My reaction shouldn't be anger and it shouldn't involve yelling.  However, I'm doing a disservice to them when I pretend that it's only the behavior that matters.  I apologize to them, but honestly it seems to bother them less than it bothers me. So, I print out a story I wrote awhile back and have the students analyze it for character development.  The students seem captivated by the characters and when it's done, the class is silent.

"Did you write that?" a student asks (one of the traviesos I had yelled at)

"I knew that," he said.

"Me, too," a girl adds.

"Why?"

"I recognize your voice," the boys says.  "You should read us more of your stories.  I like them better than the textbook."

One thing I deeply believe is that teaching is a relational job.  When teachers lose it, there is typically relational conflict.  When the class is "in sync," it has less to do with tasks and more to do with a quality relationship.  My students behave because they trust me and they trust me because they know me.  Little things like reading a story I wrote can speak volumes to an eighth grader.

I don't believe that Obama is the anti-Christ. I don't believe that Bush ordered the 9-11 attacks. However, I do think conspiracy theories are fun (if comical). So, I decided to make up my own. Every time I add a new blog post, I change the "blog post date," hence the concept of a never-ending blog post.

NEWEST

1.  Would any sane person say to themselves, "the chalupa isn't big enough.  I need one twice that size?" Nope, but a pothead would, and that's the success of Taco Bell's Research and Development Department.  They have a group of potheads who smoke out and then say things like, "you know what, man, we need like a huge gordita fried and dipped in ranch dressing and then placed inside of a tortilla with nacho cheese."

2. Eventually hip hop will degenerate into caveman music.  It started with whispering and snapping and now it's just "oh, oh" and "aye" followed by snaps.  In two years it will simply be a series of grunts.  It's all part of a University of Columbia study on how language develops.  By raising a generation of caveman speakers, it's essentially cleansing one's palate and preparing for learning a new language.

3. Cop cars didn't originate as crime-fighting vehicles.  Instead, they started as mobile discos, playing a repetitive loop and flashing blue and red lights.  The Ad Council thought that discos on wheel would be a healthier, dance-driven alternative to ice cream trucks.  Sadly, they chose Plainview, Texas, as their pilot town and a few of the more conservative Southern Baptists picketed the program due to the dancing while others wondered if the sirens had subliminal messages.


OLDER

1. Pacifiers were created during the Cold War by Soviet scientists hoping to create a generation of American pacifists. Now we have millennial men who don tight pants and wear guy-liner and manscara.

2. Because the City of Glendale has no place to store the cones, they perpetually tear up and reconstruct our roads instead. They have considered firing the guy who writes the moralistic rhyming traffic warnings to rent storage facilities for orange barricades. However, the traffic cone lobby secretly controls our little suburban enclave.

3. NASCAAR is real, but the fans are fake. Or at least they were in the beginning. A secret meeting began where car companies and advertisers wanted to create a way that people would pay to watch moving advertisements. They figured that even the most illiterate bumpkins wouldn't be duped, so they started recruiting fake fans from professional wrestling venues.

4. Facebook is really a CIA operation that began as a way to track terrorist groups. However, when that failed, they sold it to agribusiness and the mafia who are using Farmville and Mafia data to inform their decisions. It has a real Wisdom of Crowds feel to it.

5. Muppets are real and we are pretend. Jim Henson led a muppet revolution in 1973 and since then we have lived in a Matrix-like reality. Sesame Street exists as a meta-narrative reality t.v. show. Muppet children watch human puppets who are learning alphabets through watching Muppets.

6. The first step in android colonization of our world is to gently expose us to their nihilistic culture through robotic voices of catchy rap music. T-Pain is their Christopher Columbus.

7. The most intelligent life form is actually the tree, but it speaks so slowly we can't even hear it. Global warming was actually an arbor-induced plan to increase carbon dioxide and fuel their ongoing "green capitalism."

8. Cher is really just Michael McDonald in drag. Listen closely, you'll hear what I'm talking about.

9. Bob the Builder is actually designed to make children acquainted with their future master-machines. The robotic voice on rap music is designed for robot assimilation as well.

10. Morgan Freeman is really Jesus. When he plays God in the movies, he's really just playing himself. He figured that he'd choose a narrative format that America would understand.

11. Our school felt a bit like a sea of green. Tons of staff wearing Packers clothing, very little Cardinals clothing. I'm telling you, Wisconsin is trying to colonize us and brainwash our children through sending us teachers.

12. Intellectual elitists take credit for the birth of relativism/postmodernism, but I believe it began with Fleetwood Mac's "Go Your Own Way"

13. Preservatives are the real reason humans are living longer.  For all the talk of "organic," the more chemicals we add to our bodies, the more we experience the "Twinkie Effect" of longer lives.  Some day, they won't even need to embalm people.  We'll just gradually reach our expiration date without anyone noticing.

14. The Gladiator games were rigged.  The Romans first marketed it as real, but after a few scandals had to change it to "sports-themed entertainment"

15. The wildly popular 80's show ALF was not a puppet-human hybrid, but actually a reality television show to try and acclimate the United States to our colonizers.  However, unlike ET, Americans grew skeptical and scared, mostly out of fear that they would eat our cats.

16. The Green Movement originally chose the color blue to reflect the ocean and the sky.  However, none of them wanted to be called The Blues, so they just added some yellow to their propaganda and changed their name.

17. All our preservatives aren't actually killing us.  They are expanding our life.  We're like Twinkies and some day we won't have to be embalmed.  They'll just wrap us in plastic and set us in the ground.

18. The Constitution was never meant to be a lasting document.  In fact, Madison wrote the entire first draft on an Etch-A-Sketch as a metaphor of how fragile democracy can be.  Unfortunately, John Adams shook it up so that he could draw a satirical picture of Jefferson.

I use blogs, wikis, Google documents, microblogging, concept maps, shared spreadsheets and various multimedia platforms in my classroom.  On some level, I could arrogantly claim, "I'm a teaching 2.0 teacher using the best of web 2.0 to enhance my instruction."  

However, I'd be lying.  

Web 2.0 is great.  Collaboration can be amazing.  Blog comments can help further dialogue.  And yet . . .

The greatest tool is actually Web 1.0.  Here's what I mean: 

At least once a day, I have the students research a subject.  It might be as simple as "find a real-life situation where one would use percent increase or decrease" or it might be "find two examples of war propaganda and describe which elements they used."  Other times, it's more open-ended, where I say, "Begin with inquiry, research, show the bias in your sources and summarize your answer."  

The power of the internet is still the fact that it is a place where one can find millions of sources of relatively accurate information.  A shared document is not much different from a round-robin exercise.  A blog isn't too different from a journal.  A concept map is basically a more versatile web.  Slideshow presentations are basically poster boards on steroids.

However, the greatest tools are often the most basic.  Spreadsheets are still one of the best ways to organize information.  Word processing with spell check is still a powerful tool compared to paper and pencil.  The old-school internet, include all that text (gasp!) is still an amazing source of diverse information.  

It's not that I'm opposed to Web 2.0.  It's just that the obsession with all things 2.0 can easily move from "what works best" to "what's the newest tool around?"  

I'm not opposed to games.  Respectful, sportsmanlike competition has its place in the development of children.  I see the value in problem-solving, strategy and attempting to attain a goal.  However, games generally fail at our house for two reasons.  First, Joel is older and therefore more cognitively astute than Micah.  Second, when Micah loses, he is likely to call Joel a "stupid poopy man" and occasionally follow this with a punch in the face.

So, when Micah found Connect Four, I knew that there was potential for an explosion.  The combination of now nap and a generally weary feel at our house made me cautious.

My solution?

Disconnect Four.

Both of them had to place their circles in the grid without either side connecting four.  Both of them worked cooperatively at avoiding a four-in-a-row.  Eventually, it degenerated into a game of "see how fast we fill this out together," but even that had its virtues.

Perhaps I'm raising them backwards and they will struggle through all of the random life moments when they have to play the correct version of Connect Four.  Perhaps I'm raising them to be too cooperative and they'll struggle in a world of cutthroat competition.  My hope, though, is that even if they fail to be hyper competitive, they will at least know how to live cooperatively with others.

Ultimately, this is a belief that has shaped both my parenting and my teaching.  I am convinced that cooperation is a valuable virtue and that while the world might thrive on competition, people who choose to think and live cooperatively end up having richer, more meaningful lives.

My principal sympathizes with my desire for authentic, constructivist methods of assessment, but I was still a little surprised when he agreed to let me go with a gradebook that involves both student and teacher feedback.  The goal is to keep it:

• Standards-based
• Focussed on learning rather than work completion
• An ongoing dialog based upon evidence of learning
• A practical tool that both the student and I can use

What's interesting is this: I essentially "grade" once a week.  However, this has freed me to spend more time leaving blog comments, analyze math problems, leaving comments on projects and having writing conferences with students.  The results so far?  I assess more and grade less.

I rarely share resources on this blog, because I like to keep it personal and reflective, but I thought this might interest some people.

You can see it on this Google Doc.

I pick up the phone, take a deep breath and then set it back down.  I sigh again and this time wipe my sweaty palms on my dress shirt.  It's not as if I'm selling something or firing someone or contacting a mafia hit man.  I'm asking the food bank if my students can volunteer on December 11th.  Not exactly the stuff of action movies and graphic novels (can we please just call them comic books?)

Still, I'm terrified.

Was it something traumatic?  Perhaps.  It could stem from my days at Albertson's, when I would call about late fees and people assumed the anonymity of a phone line meant I was a robot.  I think it was earlier, though.  As a child, the phone seemed to have the worst of all communication.  Unlike a conversation, I couldn't see the person or feel the sense of presence.  Unlike written communication, I didn't have a chance to slowly meander and write freely and in paragraphs.

I know I could find a friend who would save me from this painfully awkward moment.  However, I tend to agree with Aristotle's notion that virtue happens when one practices things like courage in small examples on a frequent level.  I don't want to go through life with my tail between my legs.

*     *     *

I am convinced that most people go through life with crippling, irrational fear that can seem even crazier than my fear of phone calls.  Take bees.  (Figuratively, not literally, because if you literally took bees, you might get stung.)  We have tons of bees year round. (Though I'm not sure it's appropriate to measure them in tonnage) I'm not sure why. They seem to love the orange trees in the spring and they hang around the basil in the winter. In the summer, they just kind of hang around wherever - mostly in the neighbor's bougainvillea plants.

Micah's been stung twice. Each time it was because he stepped on one in the grass and each time he seemed more devastated that he had killed one than that it stung him. Micah isn't scared of bees.  He is, however, scared of his power to kill.  To me, that's a rational fear.  That might even be a noble fear, if that's possible.

My students think I'm insane for not being afraid of bees. I have them look up the chances of death by bee sting to death by car accidents and they still think I'm crazy. Cars seem safe because we "understand" them, though in fact an engine is mostly magic to us. Maybe it's that we're just more acclimated to cars and on some level I find that not only unsettling but actually a bit depressing.

It's not in my formal job description, but I think it's a part of being a teacher to help students think about the things one should or should not be afraid of.

On my list of things that a student should not be afraid of (but often are):

• The year 2012
• Gays, lesbians, bisexuals or transgender people
• Conservatives, Republicans, rich white people in Scottsdale
• Being different (though we all deal with this for a lifetime)
• Bees
• Having the wrong answers
• Germs

On my list of things my students should be a little more scared of (but often aren't):

• Cars
• Wasting one's life
• Never thinking deeply
• Going to jail (I'm often surprised by the number of students who just aren't that scared of it, because they have had family members in jail before)
• Having all the right answers to the wrong questions
• Never trying anything different

That is by no means an exhaustive list, but it's a short example of what I experience as a middle school teacher.  So, ultimately, that's why I pick up the phone.  That's why I pursue some difficult relational conversations with my wife.  That's why I speak up in meetings when my heart is pumping and screaming to me, "just shut up and you'll fly under the radar."  It's because I am convinced that if I choose to live based upon irrational fear, I have no authority asking for courage from my students.

I read a quote by Andre Agassi about why the American Student should be the Person of the Year for Time Magazine.  His point is well-taken, regarding how society has failed our students.  Yet, he has to add the anti-union twist at the end about how there needs to be a "student union" protecting students.

It's not that Agassi is wrong.  The truth is that the union does occasionally protect some really bad teachers who need to leave the profession altogether.  However, he misses the points on the teacher's unions.  I've seen ten to twenty quality teachers who were harassed by horrible administration and I watched our union take up the cases and fight for the teachers.

It's a complicated issue.

I often feel this way when hearing people argue health care.  I am not a health care professional and neither are most of the people with really strong opinions on the subject. However, I have a hard time believing that the European system is a utopia where all people have amazing, high-quality health care at a super-low cost.  Nor do I believe that our current health care reform is the first step on an Obama-sponsored Cultural Revolution.

It's a complicated issue.

I asked my students if they would have killed Hitler in 1930.  What began as a simple yes/no question quickly became nuanced.  Does it change it if he hasn't actually killed anyone yet?  Could persuasion have changed his mind?  Would someone even more radical (and perhaps less addicted to morphine) been more successful and actually won the war for Germany?  Is it morally right to take a life to save six million?

My students are able to think through the issue from multiple perspectives, partially because they have the time to do so and they are at an age where the cement of convictions is barely beginning to harden.  It's more than that, though.  They have no sound bites and no pundits and no slogans screaming at them. So does that mean television is evil?  Should we avoid it or do we need it to keep abreast in our cultural shared narrative?

It's a complicated issue.

Today Joel and Micah began playing Connect Four.  This could have turned ugly really quickly, because Joel tends to dominate, given his age (and thus cognitive development) and Micah can get really emotional about it.  I considered stepping in, but I waited it out for awhile until Micah introduced a new game.  It was essentially Disconnect Four.  The goal involved working cooperatively to avoid getting four in a row.  It's harder than it first seems.  So is it always right to let them figure things out?  Or should I step in more often?  And is competition inherently wrong or are there limits to cooperation?

It's a complicated issue.

Later tonight, Joel had to do 15 pages worth of homework.  We fell behind with it, because the kids kept getting sick and thus I grew agitated at the thought that it was homework rather than home think. I was ready to throw out some Alfie Kohn and send it to his teacher.

However, as we practiced our letters (I use the term we loosely here.  I generally excel at phonemic awareness) and blended our words, I noticed the joy that Joel experienced.  It wasn't the evil practice I often make it out to be.  In fact, it was nice to see what exactly he had been working on in school. So, does that mean I now embrace homework?  Not so much.

It's a complicated issue.

At home and at school, I want children to see the nuances of ideas and issues and motives.  I want them to understand that it takes awhile to pull back the layers to an argument or to decipher well-crafted propaganda.  I want them to have an open mind and yet develop some firm convictions.  I want them to think deeply without growing too rigid.

"Just go ahead and try out car number 312."  

"What's that? I can't use my own car?"

"No sir.  That wouldn't be fair to everyone else.  How can we have valid, reliable measurements with each driver using a different car?"

"But this is a stick shift.  I drive an automatic."

"You'll just have to do your best . . . Oh, I'll have to dock points for that one."

"For what?"

"Adjusting the seat.  We need uniformity or our results are skewed."

"But this is how I've been driving . . . "

"I don't care.  Let's go to Dairy Queen."

"I'm not sure where that's located."

"You haven't memorized it?"

"I'm lactose intolerant.  I . . . I never go to DQ."

"That's too bad."

"I'll just check it on my Android."

"I'm sorry, but you cannot use any electronic devices on this test.  But you can choose the correct location.  Is it:
a. 59th and Greenway
b. 67th and Greenway
c. 43rd and Peoria
d. 43rd and Dunlap
e. both a and d"

"I know there's one on 59th and T-bird.  We can go there."

"Wrong.  It was both a and d.  You'll lose points for that one."

*     *     *

My students use netbooks, calculators, manipulative and the shared knowledge of each other in order to solve complex problems.  Fortunately, they'll probably do well on the test, because it's easier than the problems I give them in class. Still, they'll struggle with the fact that all of their tools are taken away on the high stakes kill-and-drill tests.

However, I will have students who miss a question on the Pythagorean Theorum due to an error in long division.  I'll have a student who will lose points on the six traits because of the implied mentality that sloppy means poor writing.  I'll have students who have great ideas and yearn to add a few facts found online, but none of those are options.

Asking students to take a test without the tools to solve a complex problem is not "how the real world works."

Photo Credit: JKönig on Flickr Creative Commons

#8 in a series on what I believe and how it shapes my teaching

We're one of the few homes in the neighborhood with trees that drop leaves.  I've read up on the debates between whether it is better environmentally to have an energy-saving shade tree that sucks up water or a desert landscape that does little to shade our house.  I'm not sure which one is more selfish.  I know this much, though: I yearn for the dropping of the leaves.  I know that our yard will become a multicolored canvas full and symphony of crackles and I'll be slow to rake it up, not so much out of laziness but out of a desire to let it be.  
It's the time of year when old people start to die.  No one says it this way, because it sounds crass.  Still, it's true.  I'm thinking about my grandpa more often right now. I'm thinking about the futility of life, the mystery of the afterlife and the sense that it all goes so quickly.  
Meanwhile, I slow down.  I let things slip.  The utopian dreams of the summer fall down as well, leaving a mosaic of shards of glass and I'm left with something beautiful - though nothing near what I had expected.  Already, I've abandoned the "here's every assignment you're missing" list or the "make sure every assignment has a rubric" goal and a host of other dreams I had in August.  
This is also a time when students begin telling the larger part of their stories.  Everything up to now has been mostly exposition, but now I hear character and conflict in quick one-on-one chats or in blog posts.  I hear things that make me cry and often I have to hold in the tears until lunchtime or prep period.  Tragedy seems a little closer.  Something in the dying of the light stirs up the sense of reality that can diminish in a summer sun.  
I realize that this all starts to sound a bit depressing, but it doesn't feel that way.  There's something in the slowing down, in the relaxing, in the comfort of autumn that does something to my soul.  I'm a better dad right now - much more patient with the boys when they argue, much more cognizant of how soon the sun will set and much more likely to remember that life is finite.  I'm a better teacher, too.  I'm less concerned than ever before with trivial test scores or recognition.  
It's not that I'm happier, per se.  At least not happy in that "let's have a cupcake and smile and hit a pinata full of candy" kind of way (though admittedly confectionary-filled paper mache animal abuse certainly has its place in the world) but oddly enough I feel more content during this time of year.  
One of the best parts of being a teacher is that it's seasonal.  I know "seasonal work" sounds pejorative, along with the terms "parochial" and even occasionally "time off" (I even call it a sabbatical just to avoid the stigmatism).  Yet, for all the talk of the need to go "year round," I'll fight to keep the teaching seasonal.  It might be the only social institution left that understands the need for seasons.   Photo Credit: Ferran on Flickr Creative Commons

I have mixed feelings on the whole awards concept, but I do enjoy a chance to nominate and recognize some of the blogs I read on a regular basis.  Sadly, there aren't categories that I would like (best high school teacher - "Stop Trying to Inspire Me" or best kinder teacher "Look At My Happy Rainbow") and there are some categories that are almost worthless to me.

Best individual blog:

Science Teacher - If there is a Doyle fan club, Nash and I will have to arm wrestle for who gets to be president. 

Best individual tweeter:

@jerridkruse for his fresh quasi-Luddite perspective

Best group blog

Cooperative Catalyst - I feel like this is a true example of what happens when a group of people choose to write together and comment on one another's work as well.  It's thoughtful, provocative and has a real range when it comes to voice.

Best new blog

Comments4kids - One of the smartest ways to organize student comments on a grassroots level. 

Best class blog

Swimming Under Icebergs - A multimedia, constructivist, student-centered blog.  Every once in awhile, I have my class read their blog posts.

Best resource sharing blog

Joe Bower - I know that sounds a bit strange, because it's not a "ten zippy things that will change your teaching career" blog, but he shares tons of resources and perspectives on authentic, constructivist education.

Most influential blog post

Jabiz Raisdana's post "There Is Nothing in the Internet That Is Not In Your Heart" struck a chord with many readers who recognized that the hysteria over the internet is a bit insane.

Most influential tweet / series of tweets / tweet based discussion

#midleved

Best teacher blog

Mrs. Love's Blog-0-Rama - thoughtful, practical, personal and well-written.  I really enjoy this blog and read it regularly.   (Incidentally, this was hard, because I wanted to nominate many others for this one)

Best educational wiki

Wikistange: To me, this is what a wiki should be all about - students sharing, posting, commenting.  It's an ever-evolving picture of Alan's classroom.

Best educational podcast

"With Learning in Mind" is a great, conversational podcast by Russ Goerend and Matt Townsley.

Best educational webinar series

The Reform Symposium - one of the few "virtual conferences" that I paid much attention to.  I really enjoyed it.

Best educational use of a social network

The Educator's PLN

Tweet

#7 in a series

I believe in homework.  No, homework is a misnomer.  I believe in home learning.  I don't buy into the notion that learning starts at one moment and ends in the next, as if one walks trades minds and identities and passions simply by clocking in and clocking out.   

I've met people who hate to learn.  I don't simply mean that they hate formal education.  They genuinely hate deep thought.  These people watch professional golf and keep up on the celebrities and enjoy gossip.  To me, that's tragic.  It's not that golf or celebrities are inherently evil.  It's just that I can't fathom a life where someone retires from learning once college ends (or perhaps younger). 

Sometimes I try and imagine the people I've met who seem uninterested in learning.  I wonder if perhaps they learn secretively, but avoid deep-thinking conversations out of fear or insecurity or the heavy emotions that come with the acquisition of wisdom.  Perhaps they aren't shallow so much as shy.  Or distracted.  Or just tired, really, really tired from the thinking involved in mere survival. 

Joel, Micah and Brenna think non-stop.  Not only that, but they think with a sense of excitement and joy.  I'm not sure when people lose that.  Perhaps it's beat out of them in school or maybe the early years are just a honeymoon stage with consciousness and at some point you realize that you can't divorce your mind and so you choose instead to live in separate rooms and talk cordially but avoid anything of depth.

Joel and Micah stand in the backyard making ramps with wooden planks and a picnic table.  First, it began with "which car will go faster?"  and then "which car will go further?"  and now it's "will a steeper slope mean it goes faster?"  Tomorrow it will probably be "will a slow car on a steep slope go faster than a fast car on a flatter slope?" 

There's inquiry and observation, vocabulary and even functional text (albeit verbal, so not really text).  Yet, there aren't any worksheets or bells or objectives on the board.  School is just practice.  It's like a condensed preview before the drama begins.  Seen this way, I can see why some kids check out and opt for pop corn rather than a melodramatic retelling of a chopped-up story. 

It's not that I'm against school.  I'm a teacher after all.  I am able to see some real value in what Joel is experiencing in kindergarten.  Still, what I wish for him is the same that I wish for my students:  that they would see the classroom (even at its best) as the preview and recognize that learning is life and life is learning.

Photo Credit: me and the sysop on Flickr Creative Commons

This is the sixth post in a series "Make Believe" about what I believe and how it impacts the way I teach.

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I'm sitting in a hotel room in Brazil, tears streaming down, as I try and scrub the sticky blood off my shoes. I'm replaying the scene - the apathy of the observers, the kid (maybe seven or eight), lifeless and pale.  I wanted the world to stop, but instead someone explained to me, "The favela isn't always pretty.  Sometimes the shop owners get tired of the street kids stealing and they send a message."

I lost my faith in capitalism.

I lost my faith in the absolute virtues of America. I could have looked at this as a sign of "how great we have it," but instead, I began to see our nation as a large utopian bubble designed to keep the suffering out.  I began to see our nation as Disneyland on steroids and the magic turned out to be a materialist illusion.

Disillusionment.

Find the root words, kiddos.  Illusion.  


I spent the next four years angry every time I saw large overt acts of Patriotism.  When 9-11 happened and everyone flew flags, I withdrew and asked quietly, "What about humanity?  Why is a life only important due to an accident of geography?"

Then something shifted.  In teaching immigrant students, I would see the American Dream - the desire for a safe place to raise a family, the idea of equal opportunity, the freedom guaranteed in the Bill of Rights.  I met a girl whose dad was tortured for running an "illegal" church in another country.  I met a boy whose dad was shot, execution-style, in front of their home, because he wouldn't pay the drug dealers for "protecting" the neighborhood.

I began to experience a more relational and realistic form of patriotism.  I began to see a more holistic picture of this place and in the process, I fell in love with America.

Strange, I realize.  But I can't serve a community without loving it.  I can't change it without caring about it.   Out of the disillusionment, I began to see that honest patriotism isn't about singing songs or waving flags (though they have their place).  It's about loving it enough to embrace it and celebrate it and work to change it.

Patriotism isn't nice.  It isn't a silent acceptance of the cultural values.  Yet, it is a grateful attitude for the freedom I experience and a desire to help transform it at the same time.  It's a mystery, often filled with the confusion of an awkward relationship.  But it's real and it's crucial for a thriving democracy.

So, back to my classroom.  I want my students to be patriotic, but it doesn't have to be through reciting incantations or wearing patriotic clothing or demanding that politicians wear flag lapel pins.  I want them to fight against injustice and speak out against racism, because they care deeply about this nation.
I want them to see America with their eyes open and learn what it means to serve their community with love and humility.

"I can't get this right!" Joel yells in frustration.

"It looks fine," I tell him.

"No, it looks like a whale that's about to die," he explains.  "That's not an eight.  It's a dying whale."

He erases it and then redraws it and then erases it again.

"Joel, does this eight have to look perfect?"  I ask him.

"No."

"Do you know how to write the letter eight?"

"Yes."

"Then can we move on?"

Yes, I'm actually encouraging my child not to work harder.  I'm telling him that it doesn't have to look perfect.  I'm stifling his self-imposed ambition toward mastery.  It might seem counterintuitive, but I'm stepping in right now precisely because he needs to know that "good enough" is often better than "almost perfect."

Don't get me wrong.  I like when he redraws his pictures or when he redesigns a castle with blocks.  I'm often impressed with his focus when he is into a task.  Yet, I also want him to learn to be satisfied.  I want him to understand that the number eight can look like a dying whale and still serve its purpose.  I want him to know that if he misses an assignment or two, his identity will not be shattered.

Truthfully, I worry about Joel's leanings toward perfectionism.  I know that schools often admire these types of behaviors and I can picture him holding a Student of the Month award in front of a crowded auditorium, thus fueling the perfectionism even further.  While some fathers tell their sons, "Go out and do great things," I hope my kids hear the message, "Do something meaningful and find joy in the process."

Schools don't give out awards for contentment.  They don't have the, "Your child settled for a B, because he knew that his learning was more important than a grade and he wanted to chase a butterfly in PE instead," award.  They don't provide bumper stickers reading, "My child stepped away from the race to the top and instead forged his own path courageously and with a sense of satisfaction."

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There's a story of Solomon having the chance to ask for any gift imaginable.  He chose wisdom.  Not bad.  Yet, when I read Ecclesiastes, it becomes clear that Solomon chose the wrong gift.  When projects crumbled and hedonism faded, he felt jaded and angry and depressed.  "It's all a vapor." So, while he had enough wives and concubines to have a new woman every night for three years and he owned enough land that he could not travel across it by foot, he felt empty.

He should have asked for contentment.

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I'm not against achievement.  I find satisfaction in a job well-done and I work hard in the process.  If Joel or Micah or Brenna go on to get doctorates and write in scholarly journals, I'll be happy for them.  I don't want them to become adults who waste away their afternoons eating cheese puffs and watching celebrity judges berate working class petty criminals.  Yet, I don't want that to be the bottom line.  Achievement for the sake of achievement will always be empty, because it can never be enough.

Enough.

That's precisely it.  Somewhere deep within, I want my children to find that sense of "enough" and be able to feel satisfied with life. "Enough" allows people to achieve great things, but also understand that achievement has to be sustainable.  "Enough" encourages people to take on risky endeavors, because they don't feel the need to hedge their bets.  "Enough" prevents people from burning out or turning jaded or working endlessly with a sense of self-defeat.

I recently read a post about the blurred lines between home and school and work. Jeff Utecht questioned whether students might need to have some free time to go on Facebook when finished with an assignment. He pointed out that, "the truth of the matter is when we’re constantly connected we can constantly work and play."

I see his point and yet I shudder at the thought of being "constantly connected."  True, I take a part of my home life into school and a part of my school life into my house.  Yes, compartmentalization can be dangerous.  In a modernist, factory-driven world, we can chop our experiences into bite-sized portions and miss the holistic side of life.

Still, I need walls. I need boundaries.  I need context and space and setting to my story.  I don't need to be in two places at once.  (If I learned anything from Harry Potter it's that the horcrux might be appealing, but it will cost me my soul in the process)

It's for this reason that I don't own a cell phone.  I don't want to be partly at work when I'm building a tower with Micah and I don't want to be writing on make-believe walls when I'm with my students.  If you want to reach me at home, you'll have to call the landline and hear the kids screaming and recognize that you have interrupted something sacred.


I'd like my texts to be real texts, preferably a mix of ancient and modern and postmodern.  I'd prefer a mobile mind and a static phone.

"We need to tear down the walls," technophiles scream about schools.

No, let's not.  Not yet.  Let's create doors.  Let's create some windows and require some transparency.  Let's paint beautiful murals on the drab industrial walls.

But let's keep some walls.  They define the space.  They ask us to maintain a very human, terrestrial need to connect, not digitally, but in person.

I realize that lists can be lame, but I have nowhere else to go with some disconnected thoughts about why I need walls:

• I need walls to create boundaries that allow for community and relationship.  
• I need digital walls to remind me that I am not "always available."  For this reason, I don't own a phone and I have "off times" in the evening where I avoid the computer
• While I have netbooks with students, I have times when we keep them shut and I remind them to observe what they see in our own room, within our own walls. 
• I like the notion of having some mental walls.  I see multitasking as a dangerous activity that actually ruins authentic learning.  

Photo Credit
First Picture: fedewild's photo stream on Flickr Creative Commons
Second Picture: Rocketeer's photo stream on Flickr Creative Commons

Modern science alone, stripped of story and poetry, provides a wiry, cold, metallic view of humanity.  It's not inaccurate per se, but it's empty.  Thus, love or joy or sincerity can be reduced to firing ions and chemical reactions and muscular movements.  It is as if a picture is not so much reduced to paint-by-numbers so much as a thick, black-outline coloring book.

Poetry and art and all things aesthetic provide a tone and pulse and color that science misses.  Yet, left on its own, it turns abstract and narcissistic - original for the sake of being original, provocative to be provocative, evocative only to evoke, but with no truth, no aim, no purpose.

Blend the two together and you get the mystery of humanity, a stained glass window.  Beautiful and scientific. Light in its infinite, paradoxical essence illuminating those who are hopeful and skeptical.  Wires framing in the reality and stained glass reminding us that every movement brings about a new perspective on life.  It is permanent and temporary.

Now take that window and toss a sharp rock at it.  Perhaps out of fun or boredom or restlessness or because that's what the people before us did and so we joined in.  That's us.  Stained glass windows.  Fragile and yet strong, beautiful and yet broken.  Our stories are incomplete because of some pain, some shame, some event (perhaps even before we were born) that shattered us.

I'm reeling this evening after a hard day.  Kids talked while I gave directions.  Students laughed when a picture Father's Day picture frame broke.  No "fuck offs" or "you're racist" comments.  Still, I yelled and felt ashamed and out of that shame I wanted to either justify my actions (those kids were awful) or create a perfectionist plan (here's how I'll fix it) or look for some justification on why I'm a great teacher.

I want so badly to have a roll of duct tape and fix it.  Let me pretend that I'm a "super teacher."  Let me pick up the shards and reconfigure them into something more amazing.  Let me redesign the window.  Yet, the minute I jump into this self-help cycle, I end up cutting my hands and missing out on the beauty that remains in a cathedral of broken windows.

So, tomorrow I'll come back.  I'll apologize again.  It might be awkward, especially when people want double-pained windows that go generally unnoticed. Students will forgive.  A few brave ones will apologize as well.  I'll recognize that they are broken, too, and on the hardest days of this year I'll keep this in mind when a child acts out in anger or laziness or perfectionism.  I'll keep this in mind when I'm in the staff lounge and I hear "he's a good kid" or "he's a rough kid" and ultimately it will be a part of what allows me to thrive as a teacher.

I won't be shocked when a "good kid" does something bad or when a "bad kid" does something good.  I won't be shocked when beauty breaks through at unexpected times.  I won't be shocked, either, when the brokenness becomes apparent.

To my core, I believe we are all windows, stained and broken and beautiful all the same.

Photo Credit: Photos_by_Jenn's photo stream on Flickr Creative Commons

I stole this idea from an NPR series awhile back.  I'll be mentioning what I believe and how it shapes the way I live. I'm choosing the term "make" in terms of what I make out of life and how I make sense out of life.  I'm choosing believe, because though these are my convictions, I recognize that they require belief rather than "acceptance."

I stare into the fire, watching the flames dance and tip toe and finally drop down into a lazy smolder. In this moment, I can't look at the woman two lawn chairs away as she shares what it is like to have a two year old battle with cancer. It's not out of fear or even disrespect.  It's just that I need to hear the pain in her voice with the backdrop of a fire.

"If I had one question to ask God, I would want to know why he tortures us. I'm having a hard time believing that God is good."

Another woman whose daughter is in constant pain says, "If he is good, then I feel like I'm constantly having to redefine good."

We're not in a support group, though the group provides impromptu support.  It's simply friends in a backyard, huddled around a fire, trying to make sense out of life.  No one corrects theology.  We simply experience the mystery together, asking questions, telling stories.  Just minutes ago we were playing "two truths and a lie" and laughing.

This is community.

It's our shared values and experiences and stories that unite us.  And yet . . .

It's also the fire.

Context matters.  We couldn't have this conversation at McDonald's.  We couldn't have it while watching a demolition derby at the state fair.  We couldn't have it just feet away in the living room, where a Pandora station pipes in easy listening folk rock.

It's primitive, yes, but I've grown to realize that primitive is necessary for the human experience.  I have often regretted watching a movie or a television show or an hour spent on Twitter.  I have never regretted time spent around a campfire.

It's for this reason, that I find it sacrilegious that we listen to Bible stories on plush chairs in air-conditioned rooms.  I find it sacrilegious that I have to teach folk tales and myths and legends under the incessant buzzing of fluorescent lights.   I'm convinced that a fire is as beautiful as a cathedral, but it doesn't come with loaded experiences of shame.  In fact, it has a way of melting it down until we are simply humans sitting around a fire.

My belief in the power of a campfire is why I will never quite fit in with the technophiles who offer TWENTY KILLER APPS THAT WILL REVOLUTIONIZE YOUR TEACHING and it's why I will never be able to teach to the test and it's why I will make sure that my own children experience more campfires than I did as a child with the hope that they will grow up a little different in a culture that obsesses over novelty.

It's for this reason that I believe at least one education and one philosophy and one literature class in each university should be offered in front of a campfire.  No ipads.  No notepads.  No netbooks or textbooks or notebooks.  Just the human voice and the human ear and the crackling fire illuminating a primitive part of humanity that often feels lost.

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Photo Credit: Britanglishman's Photo Stream on Flickr Creative Commons 

Micah recognizes that "day" and "night" aren't governed by the clock

Micah opens the door and looks outside.

"Ah, man! It's still nighttime.  I'm tired of nighttime."

"I understand," I tell him.

"It feels like nighttime is forever right now."

"Like it's darker later?"

"Yeah."

Joel corrects him, "It's morning, Micah.  The clock says it's past six, so it's morning."

"No, it's dark.  It's night."

It almost comes to blows, so I intervene with a very political, "You're both right." Yet, on some level, deep within my soul, I believe Micah is still right and that Joel and I have been fooled by social norms into using an electronic device to decipher the day and night. Perhaps this is embaressing to admit, but I've always liked the Elton John song "Mona Lisa and Mad Hatters," if for nothing else, the following lines:

While Mona Lisas and mad hatters
Sons of bankers, sons of lawyers
Turn around and say, "Good morning" to the night
For unless they see the sky, but they can't and that is why
They know not if it's dark outside or light

It is a collective insanity to let our devices define our sense of time and space.

photo credit - TahoeSunsets on Flickr Creative Commons
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Hey, check out my book Teaching Unmasked   Or not.  It's not for everyone, I suppose.

I decided to create this satirical xtranormal video after reading this article.