I am not a lazy teacher.  I do not have low expectations.  My students aren't failing the standardized tests.  However, I don't want my value as a teacher to be determined by a merit pay system. Here's why:

1. Ambiguity: It's too hard to measure "quality teaching" in a quantifiable measuring system.  Sure, we can create rubrics and point schedules that move beyond "value added" scores. However, the minute we try and turn something qualitative into a quantitative measurement, we run the risk of being entirely subjective.  For example, my district offers a rubric for RIF.  However, after adding the scores and comparing them to real-life situations, it was clear that the rubric did not reflect the reality of what makes someone a good teacher. 
2. Instruction Will Suffer: In most merit pay models, test scores play a huge role in teacher salaries.  (I recently wrote a post criticizing standardized tests) Students need differentiated instruction, critical thinking and creativity. A standardized approach will force teachers into a pedagogy that is low-level and irrelevant.  In other words, we'll have more kill-and-drill teach to the test classrooms.  
3. Motivation: The best way to motivate a quality teacher is to offer a higher baseline salary (a living wage would be nice) and then allow for challenges, autonomy and meaning to thrive in a supportive environment.  Great teachers didn't go into the profession for the money and they rarely quit because they weren't rewarded financially.  Instead, the quality teachers I've known have left the profession due to toxic environments, a lack of personal autonomy and greater push toward standardization.
4. Fails to Grasp Holistic Learning: Ask anyone about their favorite teacher and you'll hear stories of a teacher who was a mentor, a counselor and a guide for life.  They were coaches and club sponsors, tutors and facilitators as well as quality teachers in the classroom.  A merit pay system fails to grasp that teachers are in a holistic, human system where learning is not confined very easily to the boxes on an evaluation rubric.
5. Market vs. Social Norms: Most teachers are not motivated by market norms.  They don't view the profession through an input/output spreadsheet and for all the talk of mission statements and SMART goals, few teachers feel deeply passionate about such concepts.  Instead, they are motivated by social norms - the community, the sense of belonging, the chance to make a difference, the deeper existential meaning they find in what they do.  Merit pay is a market norm fix to an issue that is deeply social. 
6. Subject and Grade Differences: Core curriculum classes are different from CTE / vocational, arts, physical education and music classes.  Similarly, teaching five year olds is nothing like teaching seniors in high school.  (Now freshmen, yes, but seniors, no.) How will merit pay deal with these differences?  How will they deal with tested versus non-tested subjects?  How will they evaluate teachers whose roles are so different from one another and still claim to represent a uniform, equitable standard?
7. Context Matters: Gifted isn't the same as special ed.  ELL classroom aren't the same as English language proficient classrooms.  Socioeconomic background and regional contexts make a difference as well.  Similarly, rural, urban and suburban schools each face a subset of issues unique to their populations.  I am doubtful that the proponents of merit pay will allow the local politic to determine a fair way to apply merit pay.  Instead, most districts will be left trying to make sense out of a large, Federally-mandated program.
8. Innovation Suffers: Merit pay rewards teachers who use "best practices" and produce higher test scores.  As teachers feel the pressure to earn a living wage, they'll be less likely to try new practices that could potentially transform learning.  
9. Merit Pay Encourages Cheating: What does Wall Street have in common with Major League Baseball?  When high-stakes extrinsic rewards were offered for short-term gains, people began to cheat.  My hope is that teachers are more ethical than that, but a merit pay system sets up an unnecessary temptation that didn't exist before.
10. Expensive: Suppose we create a qualitative measurement that will determine merit pay.  It includes every necessary variable and does so in a way that is ethical and thorough.  If this happens, we will need supervisors of these systems, trainers of supervisors, conferences for these supervisors, resources for these conferences, consultants who guide districts through the hoops.  In other words, companies like McGraw Hill will siphon off local resources in the name of merit pay - all for an idea that is unproven and most likely will be ineffective at best and most likely detrimental to student learning. 

Through the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, I got a cool review from a Publisher Weekly on Drawn Into Danger. The only tough part was the "slack plot," which has actually been improved after the last revisions I made to my book.  Thought I would share it:

Publisher Weekly Reviewer
Here’s an original story about a young boy who is whisked away from his ordinary life as an outcast to be trained as a hero who will save the day. Unlike many books in the genre, this novel actually does do some new and fresh things. Gabriel Icarus Dunn, an overweight latino kid with few friends, learns in a school fight that he has the power to emit electricity from his hands. Soon, he -- along with his twin sister Perla and his cousin, Jesse -- is living in a land known as the Superpower and enrolled in superhero school. The Superpower is a place awash in political turmoil over how heroes should interact with non-heroes. As Gabe (later, Stunn Gunn, then Danger Drone) comes into his own, he learns much about himself and the need to find himself, while simultaneously choosing “his own story” for the graphic novelists who will represent him. A somewhat slack plot with a few too many loose ends is made up for with exciting exposition and playful uses of convention. This novel takes a familiar structure and twists it in some exciting new ways.

I have a kindergarten memory that I carry around with me, reminding me why students sometimes wander - both physically and philosophically.

Station time begins and I'm lost in the chaos and the movement and the sense that everybody but me knows where to go.  It's not that I wasn't listening.  It's that I didn't find the directions important.  I listened when she read the story.  I paid close attention to the explanation of patterns.  I thought I listened when she gave directions, but then, I don't know, they slipped away somehow.

I wander toward the window and stare at the hallway.

"What are you doing right now?" the teacher gently asks.

"I'm looking out the window," I tell her without the slightest bit of eye contact.

"What are you looking at?" she asks.

"I'm looking at the orange-haired boy . . ."

"Red-haired?" she asks.

"Nuh huh, it's orange.  Take a look," I point.

"Why are you looking at him?" she asks.

"Because he has no idea what's going to happen to him.  Soon he'll be in kindgergarten and then it's going to be forever when he finishes school and then right when he finishes it, he's going to have to go to college.  It's like it never stops," I say.

"I thought you liked this class," she says with a pained expression on her face.

"I do.  School is fun.  But I wish I could run out there and tell him to enjoy the freedom.  I'd tell him to get out of the stroller and run around, because pretty soon he'll be told where to sit.  I would tell him to play while he has the chance," I say.

It's not as if I love learning and hate school.  It's just that I recognize, in this moment, that school is a broken gift.

I sigh, turn around and find my way to my station with the low group.  We're not supposed to know that we're the low group.  After all, we're the tigers.  But if we are the tigers, we're either defanged or in a zoo, yearning for a chance to be wild.

Note: I rarely write about faith for a few reasons.  First, it often comes across as either arrogant or trite, given the limitations of this medium.  Second, I know it has the potential to alienate readers, given the broad spectrum of who reads this blog.  Finally, I believe faith is best discussed over a pint.

Joel places the egg in carefully, watching the dye slowly stain it.   Once it turns an emerald green, he places it in the blue dye, halfway up and then the yellow dye.  His expression is serious, but the moment is all joy.  Joel examines the egg carefully, nods his head and counts how many he has left.  When it's finished, he cracks a smile and moves methodically to the next curvaceous canvas.

Micah drops three eggs in quickly, moving through his box with reckless abandon.  It's not that he doesn't care.  Rather, he cares so much that he wants to take in the full moment with absolute intensity.  Micah's all smiles and giggles when he holds up a bright orange egg.

Brenna doesn't really understand the process.  She spends most of her time trying to mix the dye with her spoons.  I watch her re-dye the same broken eggs five or six times, laughing at the splashing colors staining the table.  Brenna gets the ethos of the moment.

Joy.

All three of them get it, even when they lack the language to articulate it.

Easter eggs are all about Jesus.

I understand the history of the fertility rites and the "pagan" festivals (aren't we all at least a little pagan?) and the ideological orgy that gave us the Easter bunny.  I get it. Easter is pagan.  Jesus was Jewish.   He celebrated a Passover Seder, spoke in Aramaic and sang hymns in Hebrew.   Yet, he was also hung on a Roman cross in a world so cosmopolitan that it the phrase mocking him required three different languages.

People treat the Jesus story as if it happened in a spiritual vacuum, as if somehow there is a pure story that shouldn't be corrupted by pagan traditions like fertility rites and the spring equinox or the, God forbid, chocolate rabbits and egg-shaped Whoppers.

The message of Easter is one of grace and of joy and of a story so outrageous sometimes I have a hard time believing it.   It's the story of redemption.   It's the story of hope.

So what does that have to do with dying Easter eggs?

Everything.

If you can't see God in three kids dying Easter eggs, you're missing something.  We cling to symbols and rituals and metaphors to make sense out of the inexpressible.  Some choose stained glass windows.  I'll choose stained eggs.

(hint: it had nothing to do with writing and everything to do with school)

Sometimes I write quickly, my fingers tip tapping to keep up with the creative impulse before it disappears. I'm racing physically to catch up with my mental process.  No outlines.  No preconceived ideas.  No editing and rewriting.  

Sometimes I go back to those quick writes and change the phrasing or the vocabulary.  I pick apart sentences and rearrange paragraphs.  I rethink entire conversations to try and capture the voice of a character.  

Sometimes I leave it alone, because there are moments when what is written is precisely what needs to be written and changing it is akin to chopping off a part of a statue or smearing an oil painting.  

Sometimes I spend time daydreaming, trying to get the right focus.  I have a fuzzy picture of a plot and I need to mess with the lens a little before getting a decent shot.  Or not. Maybe it's more like I'm getting to know my characters and it's still a little awkward, like a first date or cocktail party. 

Sometimes I move slowly, creating charts or diagrams and methodically writing each line.  It's a bit like wet cement and if I rush through it, the foundation won't stand a chance.  

So all of this has me thinking about the rigid way that I experienced writing as a child. 

Where's your outline?  

Where's your concept map?  

Why aren't you editing what you wrote?  

Why are you daydreaming?  

It's no wonder I hated writing in school when I was growing up.  I never had a chance to write naturally, vacillating between fast and slow, day dream and frantic typing, rewriting and leaving alone.

I wasn't allowed to be wild with the pen.  I wasn't allowed to be mentally messy.  I knew writing was powerful, but I spent years having to drive a Ferrari through a school zone.   After awhile, I started to believe this.  It was only in writing rebellious poetry that I realized that I'd been sold a lie about writing being nice and neat and proper.  

While walking in transition from the cafeteria to the classroom, the conversation meanders toward death.  Not gratuitous death.  Not action hero death.  But something in the story stirs up memories of death.  Dusty memories.  Foreign memories.  Musty memories, perhaps.  But fresh and here and live and now.

But death.

Real death.

Honest death.

Not dying, either.  We don't talk about that moment of departure, but the memory that permeates the silence afterward.

"What lies do people tell about death?" I ask.

"I think we lie about Hell.  I think we say that it's real, because we can't fathom a God who could really change all people from the inside out," he says.

"I think we lie and say that Hell isn't real," another boy says.

It's dangerous territory and I consider stepping in with a smooth diffusion.  Instead, a student offers his own opinion.

"I think we pretend that death is permanent.  I think we lie and say that we'll get over it, but we won't.  We never do. And you know what?  I don't want to get over it, either," a student says.

"What do you think, Mr. Spencer?"

"I think that some people seem to shrink into death and somehow become whole afterward in my memory.  Then others seem to evaporate and I never do find them again.  And then others explode into death and I spend a lifetime pulling out shrapnel at the most unexpected times."  I don't know where I'm going with my answer.

Just talking in the moment.

My students keep walking.  They're quiet.  Real quiet while the rest of the class chatters about the NBA playoffs and who said what on Twitter and Facebook and hey did you know that Mario likes you but he's too scared to ask you out right now.

I can't tell if their silence is because they are confused by the metaphors or questioning my thoughts or if maybe they can read in my body language the fact that I'm not fully present right now.  I'm in eighth grade again, trying to remember Lynn.  I'm trying to pull back the layers of rewrites and revisions and see the fragile girl who was too scared to keep on going.

This post is vaguely connected to another post I wrote for Cooperative Catalyst. 

My students are currently reading Drawn Into Danger as our class read aloud.  It's been a surreal experience as a writer to have conversations with readers as the story progresses for the first time.  Perhaps the greatest learning experience for me has involved the lens that each student uses as he or she interprets the text.

Before reading my book aloud, I had so many assumptions about my students.  I thought they would find the dialogue less exciting than the action.  I assumed they would understand certain scenes that I had made explicit and yet I was surprised by the mysterious moments when students pieced together the seemingly disconnected shards of the narrative.  I've been surprised by which parts they found funny or interesting or boring or confusing.  I've been surprised by the themes they connect with personally and which characters they are drawn toward.

In other words, I had assumed my students would interpret my story through my lens that I had used in writing it.  However, I'm realizing that the minute that students internalize a narrative, it becomes their story through their lenses.  Every student takes to the text their own insights, story and perceptions.  Every student interprets critical details in a different way.

Case in point: I asked students to define who the Outsiders represent.  I had expected students to view it through the lens of immigration.  Many of them did.  However, two students wrote about how Americans fail to offer power to homosexuals.  Others compared it to those within the school who have the power and don't have the power and the way the system seems to reward those who have it together at the expense of those who struggle.

One student compared the Superpower to the church, the powers to the power we have from God and the heroes and villains concept to the way that believers villify those who within their communities who don't agree with them.  "The saddest part is that instead of reaching out to those in the 'outside,' we ignore them and mock them and live in fear of them."

Another student took the same themes and applied it to America's response to the world.  "I think we like to avoid the world and we fear it, but then we have the power and we see ourselves as the saviors of the planet."

I'm realizing that the power of fiction is in the nuanced way that people interpret a story.  Sometimes it can be off-base and even scary (Catcher in the Rye leading to a murder) and other times it can be liberating and eye-opening (as I've seen with student who connected with A Place to Stand or The Color Purple or The Giver).

It has me wondering if maybe the reason people gravitate toward standardized tests, precise objectives and curriculum maps is that they're afraid of the differences in lenses.  Story is powerful; sometimes scary powerful.  Best to tame the kiddos with a banal basal reader and some easily digestible comprehension questions than let them interact with the text through their own lenses.

I recently read about the allegations that Three Cups of Tea  author Greg Mortenson lied about some of the significant events in his best-selling memoirs.  I'm not entirely surprised and I'm not entirely disappointed, either.

I've had moments when I lied and it's absolutely terrifying when you're discovered.  I know what it's like to spin a story into something bigger than it was in hopes that I'll seem more important or more qualified or more heroic.

To me, the bigger issue is not about an author who lied, but a culture that so desperately wants to believe the lies.  We want to be "inspired" by a guy who is kidnapped by the Taliban only to build a school for his former enemies.  We want to believe that someone got strung out on heroine, falling into a million tiny pieces only to defeat it.

I use "we" here, because I've been there.  I once thought that journal-writing could lead to freedom and that I could change the world if I would simply stand and deliver.  Intoxicated by the vapor images, I fell in love with a narrative that never really happened with the hopes that hard work could trump humility.

We want to believe in huge stories with insurmountable conflicts, bravely heroic protagonists and settings that are other-worldly.  We want to believe in fairy tales and legends, but we want those stories to be placed within the non-fiction section of our bookstore and we want to believe that when a movie claims to be "based upon a true story," it is based, not upon a profound truth, but upon literal events with flesh-and-bone people.

We want to believe in these big stories, because we are convinced that our own stories are too small.   All too often, the "small stories" are too subtle, too nuanced and too authentic for us to celebrate.  What's the drama in pushing your daughter on the swing after realizing that you've been devoting too much time to work?  Where's the inspiration in learning how to handle conflict without yelling or falling apart?

However, what if the most triumphant stories are the humble ones?  What if the life-changing narratives are filled with small acts of courage and incremental moments of character development?  What if the real, huge, sustainable change doesn't happen when you're kidnapped by the Taliban, but rather when you admit that you are broken and choose love over bitterness anyway?

A quick video I made while back comparing the difference between standardized and common. They are not the same. Let's stop using the words interchangeably.

I'm cleaning up the kitchen, trying my best to formulate a response to someone who had questioned my assessment practices.  So, I run through the mental list:

• Students need to articulate their mental process
• Students need to connect multiple math concepts as opposed to simply understanding the processes
• Students need to understand the connection between scenarios, problems and algorithms

I keep at it, loading up a on bullets, ready to aim away in a blog post.  I'll win this argument.  I'll prove my point.  

Then I look at Joel.  He's in the backyard, hands crossed, staring at the sky.  I drop the mental bullets and sit down next to him.  

"What are you working on?" I ask. 

"I'm making a tower out of sticks," he says. 

"Why?" I ask. 

"I want to see if it's possible," he says.  

"Why is it working?" I say and point to it. 

"Because I tried it," he says.  

I'm stuck with both answers: I want to see if it's possible.  It worked, because I tried it.  Suddenly my bullets feel like pretty pathetic bb's.  

"Can I help?" I ask.  

"Yeah, you can help.  Even if you mess it up, I'll let you help," he says.  

"I'll try not to mess it up," I say.  

So, I hand him sticks and I ask a few more questions.  Brenna knocks it down and Joel responds with, "I knew it would happen.  It's not strong enough.  Can we get some concrete?" 

"We don't have concrete," I say.  

"Okay," he says as he begins to rebuild.  

This moment reminds me that I don't have it all figured out.  I don't know what works best at all times.  When asked why I'm trying an assessment strategy, I can offer a great rationale with all kinds of jargon, but maybe I'm best off being honest:  I wanted to see if it was possible.  When it works, perhaps the best answer to "Why did it work?" might actually be, "because I tried it."  

I'm not a math guru.  I'm not even a social studies guru.  I'm just a guy testing out new strategies and watching what sticks. 

I recently wrote a post about the ridiculous nature of standardized testing. Somebody e-mailed me about why an authentic approach might work in some subjects, but not in a subject like math.  So, here are a few ideas of paperless math assessments for today's "What Works Wednesday" post. 

1. Math Blog: This serves two purposes.  First, it's a personal journal where students write reflections on mathematical processes, ask critical thinking questions or describe methods used to solve problems.  However, it also becomes the student portfolio, where they choose items that represent their best work, most challenging works, goals for improvement and areas of growth.  Finally, blogs become a place where students share their processes and have a chance to compare and contrast with one another.  It becomes a peer-led method of formative assessment. 
2. Concept Maps: I want to see how students connect concepts from various math standards, a concept map becomes a valuable tool.  I've watched students create their own color-coded and shape-based strategies to add layers of meaning to their mental process.  
3. Debate / Discussion: I think it's sad that teachers tend to restrict debates and discussions to social studies or language arts.  I want to see students engaged in critical thinking discourse regarding the best ways to solve problems or present data.  Sometimes this looks like a half-circle discussion of graphing methods.  Other times I have  students move to places in the room that represent various strategies (where they then discuss the strategy).  The goal here is to assess student thinking process in a way that is verbal and interactive.
4. Projects: Here students have a chance to go in-depth into the math using multimedia methods.  In the case of the budget process, it involved using spreadsheets, shared documents and adding a video or podcast component.  In the case of the eco-friendly houses, it involved hands-on construction models after using Google Sketch-up and doing online research.  A project can be formative, in terms of helping students find applications to what they are learning; but they are also summative, in terms of developing a final product that proves mastery of math skills.  
5. Mental Math: When people hear "paperless," they often assume it means technology.  However, we do mental math each day as a chance to assess each students' mathematical process. Students share their processes with one another on simple scenarios like finding the tip at a restaurant or judging how long a road trip will take. 
6. Multimedia Instructions / Tutorials: Here I start with a sample problem that contains multiple mistakes, though sometimes I start with a class brainstorm of potential mistakes.  From there, students create videos, podcasts or functional text descriptions on how to avoid the mistake and solve a problem correctly.  
7. Scenario Response: Similar to Dan Meyer's "What can you do with it?" questions, the students have a multimedia clip and then develop their own problem based upon it.  The idea here is to assess inquiry and process.  So much of math revolves around, "Can I figure out what you don't know?" Here, I get to ask, "Can I figure out how much you actually know?" Students can use any tools they use to solve the problem, including manipulatives.
8. Forms: Sometimes I want a quick assessment of student answers.  I want to know how many solved a specific problem correctly and how each student explained the process.  For that reason, I will use a Google Form and then share the overall class data with students, so we can identify potential mistakes or misunderstandings. 
9. Self-Assessment of Skills: I start with a shared document with each skill, written as a student-friendly objective.  A Student will then modify his or her shared document as they learn new skills or concepts.  I have a space for teacher and student feedback, so it becomes a chance to combine objective scoring with customized feedback. 
10. Create a Problem: Here the students find a scenario and develop an authentic problem based upon it.  For example, one group used linear inequalities to demonstrate which local taxi services are ideal for specific tasks (going to the airport, going across town, going to the supermarket).  It was relevant to our urban environment and it began with a concept that intrigued them.  Other times, I will ask students to salvage a really bad example of pseudocontext and create an alternative that uses the same skills. Either way, this becomes a chance to assess if they understand the application of a math concept in an authentic context. 

My mom calls to ask Christy a question.  Something about pop corn in a bag.  It didn't make sense - not because of her lack of description, but because of my lack of practical imagination.  She says, four or five times, "I should let you get going," and though I tell her, "it's okay, nothing's happening here," she sounds rushed.  It's not that she doesn't want to talk to me.  It's that she's worried that she's imposing on my life.   I can hear it in her voice.  She's worried that I view this conversation as a burden or an obligation or a favor, when in fact I like hearing her voice.

I'm not sure when I sent my parents the message that I wanted more space.  Perhaps it was high school.  Or maybe it was the implied message of an introvert who liked to read and write and escape into my own mind.

I crave space.  Mental space.  Physical space.  Emotional space.  I crave the chance to create a world that exists in my mind or at my finger tips - worlds of sketches and word sketches and poems that meander around me.  For me, technology enhances this world.  I can tweet and count the retweets.  I can post and check the comments.  I can create something and interact at arms distance with the world.

Sometimes I go to the famous painting of Michelangelo and remind myself that it's possible, in trying to reach for the perfection, to lose my humanity.  I'll live up in the clouds and miss the terrestrial reality around me.

Truth is that I need people.  I need them deeply.  I have a string of friendships I couldn't maintain because I allowed the physical distance to create relational distance.  I haven't talked to my mentor in nearly a year.  I miss him.  And though I see my mom every so often I'm actually looking forward to the summer, when she'll visit once a week.

I need people who know me.  The real me.  The me who once was an awkward teenager with food stuck in his braces.  I need someone who knows my story.  The whole story.  Not the stories I spin into novels.  Not the highlight reel that makes it into a blog post.

I love technology, but I need less space.  I need close proximity.  I need a front porch.  I need a pint with a friend.  I don't need another #chat.  

Joel asks me, "Daddy, why do people say black and white people when everyone is brown?"

"So you think we all look alike?"

"No, but some have dark brown and some have light brown.  My friend Dylan is light brown but his hair is  all curly like people who have dark brown skin," he explains.

It's an honest conversation about race and I get scared throughout it, wondering how to handle race and social justice with a five year old.

"Daddy, why are most of the teachers light brown?  Why aren't there more dark brown teachers?"

White noise.

I had a principal who painted over two building-sized murals that students had painted.  She said that white looked more professional, so now there are loud white walls, hushed only by the defiant gestures of taggers marking their territory with their permanent piss.

White noise.

Our textbook teaches that the United States bought the southwest from Mexico.  It wasn't an act of conquest.  No, it was "expansion."  Into, nothing, I suppose.  The book doesn't mention the Apache wars for that matter.  Our textbook ignores the often successful radical element of Civil Rights.  I supplement with primary sources, but it's against the law in our state to teach students to think critically about the actions of the U.S.  (And yet they ask us to teach citizenship.)

White noise.

As long as the status quo feels normal, it will feel deafening to my students.  As long as we paint over murals and silence the voice of dissent, the white noise will feel louder, more shameful, a megaphone of the majority yelling down to the marginalized.

White noise.

Soft Cover on Amazon.com: $10.00

Kindle Version: $4.00

Note: While I enjoy writing "What Works Wednesdays," I admit that I am not the expert.  I don't have all the answers.  So, if this ever comes off as pretentious, just spend a day with me and watch me make mistakes.  I'm not a wizard.  

My students gather in a circle for article reviews.  Each pair offers a short summary of the current event followed by a few discussion questions.  On this particular day, we meander between talks of democracy, education, death and human suffering.  The points students bring up are thought-provoking. However, I'm most impressed by the questions they ask one another.  They clarify and ask follow-up questions.  They make inferences.  They ask connecting questions and critical thinking questions.   It's a messy process, but it's beautiful messy.  It's art.

However, the deeper questions didn't happen in a vacuum.  Students have spent hours learning the art of questioning.  Here are ten things I've done in class to encourage students to ask better questions:

1. Question Everything: It's become a mantra in our class and it extends all the way to me.  As long as a question is respectful, I want students to question their world.  This applies to analyzing mathematical processes, thinking through social issues, making sense out of a text or analyzing the natural world for cause and effect.  Pretty much every lesson we do includes students asking questions to me, to one another or to themselves - and the boldest of students will ask questions of the world.  
2. Reading: I require students to ask questions before, during and after reading.  At first, the questions are basic.  "What's this story going to be about?" or "Why is that character acting like that?"  Over time, however, students think deeper about the text and start asking some profound questions.  For example, yesterday a student asked a question about Flowers for Algernon: The main character seems to be happy but ignorant that people make fun of him.  Is it better to be ignorant and happy or to know the truth, even when it will crush you? 
3. Inquiry Days: Three times a week, we do inquiry days, where students begin with their own question in either social studies or science and they research it, summarize it and then ask further questions.  While my initial goal involved teaching bias, loaded language and summarization, I soon realized that students were growing the most in their ability to ask critical thinking questions.
4. Feedback on questions: I highlight their questions in Google Docs and leave comments on their blogs with very specific feedback.  It might sound harsh, but I will tell a student, "This question is shallow.  You're a deeper thinker.  Try asking a question that forces someone to question what they already believe" or "This question is deep, but it's worded in a way that elicits a short answer response.  Can you change it so that you draw a longer response?" 
5. Model It: In the first week of school, I model the types of questions that require deeper thinking.  This happens during read alouds, but also during class discussions.  Sometimes I'll ask a really lame question and then say, "Someone tell my why that question sucked?" or I'll ask a deeper question and say, "Why was that a hard question to answer?"  The goal is to get them to see deeper questions and to also think about why a question is deep or shallow.
6. Practice It:  We do mock interviews, fake press conferences and rotating discussion zones in the first week of school.  Instead of spending time on ice breakers or excessive time on procedures, we spend time on learning to ask better questions.   
7. Scaffolding: Some students have a really hard time with questioning strategies.  So, initially I give sentence stems.  At first this was really hard for me.  I thought that students would naturally ask questions and grow through accessing prior knowledge.  I quickly realized that language acquisition had often been a barrier in asking better questions.  So, sentence stems and sample questions became a way that ELL students could modify questions and access the language. 
8. Types of Questions: I teach students about inquiry, clarifying, critical thinking and inference questioning.  Often the process is messy and there are moments of overlap, but it helps students when they can think, "What needs to be clarified?" or "How does this relate to life?"  and from there they can develop better questions. 
9. Multiple Grouping Formats: Students sometimes ask me questions.  Other times they ask partners or small group questions.  Still other times they ask the questions to the whole class.  Thus when they do an article summary, they start with individual questions but eventually move into leading a whole-class discussion. 
10. Technology: E-mail, Google Docs, instant message, Twitter and blog comments have all become asynchronous formats for asking and answering questions.  Technology allows students to take their time in crafting a question while having access to the questions of their peers.  

Hey, feel free to check out my new book Drawn Into Danger: Snapshots of a Superhero in Training.  It's a superhero memoir that is honestly a lot more fun than this blog about teaching.  You can download it for a dollar or buy it in print for nine bucks. 

I'm not sure when the fear began.  Perhaps I saw a horrible local news report as a kid or maybe I made bold assumptions about gasoline and static electricity.  However, I'm terrified of filling up the gas can for the lawn mower.  Each time I fill up the gas can, I invision explosions and sirens and maybe a few bag pipes and choirs singing in Latin.  I take a breath, fill up the tank and then relax afterward.

It gets easier each time, but the fear never ceases entirely.  I recognize that it's irrational, but my heart still pounds and my mind races toward the visions of explosions.  I have a hunch that I'd get over the fear if I had to fill up the gas tank each day.  Ultimately, exposure and experience have a way of hacking away at fear in a way that logic and reason often can't.

So, it has me thinking of this school year.  At the beginning of the school year, many students were terrified of algebra.  For some it was fractions.  They'd convert every fraction to a decimal in order to avoid the seeming improper.  Others were scared of x.  Perhaps it felt too abstract.  Or maybe it reminded them of the shame of past math classes when they "just didn't get it."

At first I thought that my students needed better, clearer instructions.  However, appealing to logic made little difference.  Instead, I had to make it familiar.  So "x" became the independent variable, that one part of math that you could manipulate and change and maneuver.  We worked slowly, daily, with a constant sense of familiarity.  Unlike the math book, we started with the scenarios, moved to the word problem and ended with the algorithms.

I used to think that the concept of an "affective filter" was simply educational jargon for mushy pop psychology.  However, when I watched students shake and sweat and completely tune out at the sight of a complex algorithm, I realized that I had to consider the deeper emotional element.  I had no control over their past experiences, their preconceived notions or their present perceptions.  I now recognize that my students need to feel safe with a subject.

Ultimately, this sense of safety leads to a bizarre paradox where students who feel safe take more chances.   So, students who once avoided innovative solutions now take risks and learn more in the process.  I watch them move from a timid place of algebraphobia and into a place where they boldly tackle challenging problems.

Hey, feel free to check out my new book Drawn Into Danger: Snapshots of a Superhero in Training.  It's a superhero memoir that is honestly a lot more fun than this blog about teaching.  You can download it for a dollar or buy it in print for nine bucks. 

A post I wrote on Teach Paperless:

I'll take up Shelly's challenge and sum it up in one word:

love

Let that be the foundation and you'll see humility.   Start with humility and you'll see authenticity.  Let those be your guide and you'll have paradox.  Real paradox.  Start with paradox and you just might have something that's sustainable.

*     *     *

I search through my blog reader one summer afternoon and glance at the deafening sound of the echo chambers.

"Here are twenty-five badass apps that will revolutionize your classroom!"

"Let the kids make decisions for Christ sakes.  We need to unschool.  Liberate the factories."

"We need PLC's.  Let us make wise, data-informed, research-based decisions.  Only then will we have schools that truly improve."

"Charter schools are the only answer.  The innercity is filled with mediocrity.  We need to reform these places with the flexibility that charter schools offer."

Lots of bold answers but not too many questions.

I walk outside and feel the grass beneath my bare feet.  I meander toward the the garden.  The tomatoes are turning a bright, bold red.  Tonight they'll transform into a marinara sauce.  

Grace.

It's humbling.

I didn't earn it.  I didn't create it.  But it grew.  Naturally.

The boys beckon me to a mudhole in the yard.  They grow and explore and make sense of their world and it's messy, really messy.  We clean up and read books and it's tidy. Then it's back outside where they climb a tree.  Should I tell them they're going too high?  I have no idea.

I vascillate between too much freedom and too much safety; too much direction and not enough support; allowing them to live in the imagination and helping them to see their physical world.

I don't know what I'm doing as a dad.  It's shrouded in mystery.  It's full of paradox.  But I have a hunch that if there is a "right way" it's the path of love.  Not insipid love.  Not Hallmark love.  Gritty love.  Messy love. Muddy love.

A month later, I'm in the classroom.  I don't know what I'm doing.  I have plans.  I have knowledge.  I have six years of teaching experience.  I have a resume that looks impressive.  But the present reality is mired in paradox.  It's messy.  It's confusing.  I meander between too strict and too lenient, too much freedom and too much safety.  I'm not a pundit.  I'm not an expert.  But I have a hunch that if there is a "right way" for my students, it's the path of love.  Real love. Messy love.

*     *      *

A twenty-first century education needs to be innovative while listening to the vintage voices of the past.  It needs to include creativity while still providing a framework for some common skills.  It needs to respect the balance of freedom and safety.  It needs to understand the complicated and complex human condition.  It needs to be a place that respects the local community while still engaging the larger world.

Those are huge challenges with complex ideas.  I don't pretend to speak for anyone beyond myself and my own classroom.  However, if I can approach my classroom with humility, motivated by love for my students, I think I'll be on the right path.

I am finally at a point in my career that I have refined my craft.  I have achieved greatness.  I am an expert in the science of teaching (a simple glimpse at my outstanding educational vitae proves this point).  Thus, I have outgrown the notion of a "not-so-master teacher."

With that in mind, I am changing the format of this blog (now termed "teach better").  Each day, I will provide practical advice on how to be the best badass teacher around.  I hope to provide very specific, concrete details that you can copy in your classroom.  What's that?  Your context is different than mine?  Who cares?  Try what I'm doing.  It's probably better than what you're doing anyway!

The best part?  Everything will be in tidy little lists.  No more meandering.  No more messy metaphors.  My test scores kick ass, folks! I rock! And now, you have a shot at being a super rock star teacher, too!