One Year Later: Why Our Kids Need Us to Focus on the Positive

One year ago yesterday, my students left the classroom with books and whatever they would need for the next two weeks. I closed my classroom door, never expecting that it would be almost a year before we would return.

On this anniversary of the beginning of probably one of the most challenging years our country has experienced, I feel incredibly thankful for being able to be back in the classroom with a handful of students. While our reality is still far from normal, it feels like we are getting closer every day. Just being able to be in the presence of young people again gives me an energy and hope that I haven't had for such a long time.

However, I can't stop thinking about all the deficit-thinking I keep hearing. Lately, I have heard many discussions and read various articles about how the kids are "behind." Behind what? The artificial standards the education system has created? Behind their peers who have also had to live through and navigate the past year? I have read about the "learning loss" they have sustained as a result of the various means of educating them this past year. How will they catch up? What practices can we put in place in order for them to get back what they have lost?

Calling attention to the supposed deficits our kids have is taking away from everything they are and still can be. Instead of focusing on what they might be missing, why don't we concentrate on what our kids can do? We have asked them to be flexible - to learn from their bedrooms, kitchen tables, or a closet down the hall. We've asked them to stay away from their friends, not hug their grandparents, to cover their smiles wherever they go. And what have they done? They have listened. They have accepted the rules. They have adjusted. They have made us proud.

Our kids have learned more over the past 12 months than they would have otherwise. They've lived through a pandemic. They've learned to find new ways to play. They have learned self-discipline and responsibility. Many have learned to navigate new technology and have had to attend school in ways that are completely different from what they are used to. They've had to help out more at home. Some have had to learn how to process the stages of grief as they've experienced the loss of someone they love. Many have learned to appreciate small things, and for the first time, some may have learned what a privilege it is to be able to go to school.

The past year has not been easy on anyone, and to continually point out what our kids are not learning is to diminish everything they have learned. Maybe they are not on a certain reading level - yet - or able to complete an advanced math problem - yet - but they are doing the best they can in a time in their lives that has been unlike any other. To claim that kids aren't learning anything is to marginalize all the work students, teachers, and parents are doing to try to make this year as normal as possible when it is anything but.  

In a normal school year, there are kids who are "behind." This is not a new concept, but the pandemic has exacerbated it by bringing attention to it as everyone watches how schools respond. What about the kids who were already reading below grade level, who had trouble completing grade-level math? Teachers have been losing sleep for years trying to figure out ways to meet and reach each child where they are - without the added layers of uncertainty, worry, and grief that have infiltrated this entire school year.

Where they are. That is a concept that really should be brought to the forefront of the discussions about education currently. Instead of holding onto the grandiose ideas of where kids should be, why not focus on where they are - and then try to move them forward? Find ways to engage them, let them be creative, motivate them to want to learn. Find ways to build them up instead of letting them hear us speak of all the ways they are falling behind. Why not recognize and celebrate the strengths of our kids and build from there?

We have to change our deficit thinking into the kind of thinking that is going to help kids grow and become the thriving teens and adults we know they can be. It only takes a few influential adults in a child's life to help change that child's trajectory. Deficit thinking sets our kids up for failure, but a strong belief in their assets is what can make all the difference. 

Kids are always listening, watching, emulating our behaviors. If they are constantly hearing about how behind they are, where is the motivation to try to move ahead? We need to focus on the multitude of things kids can do. Don't negate the fact that everyone is trying their best. Our kids are going to be okay. Give them a hug. Sit down and read a book together. Have a conversation. They have a lot to teach us about resiliency and flexibility, and they will continue to rise to our expectations.

Running Out of Time

(very rough draft)
Running Out of Time

They say the years are short.
Just yesterday
I heard her heartbeat
for the first time
and then
she snuggled against my chest
and I felt her tiny breaths.

Just yesterday
she took timid steps
for the first time
and then
she was running across the yard,
pigtails flying in the wind.

Just yesterday
she said my name
for the first time
and then
she told stories faster
than the words could leave her mouth.

They say right now the days are long.
Today
we stepped onto the pavement
together
and then
the cadence of our feet
fell into a silent rhythm.

Today
we inhaled and exhaled
together
and then
the sound of our breath
carried on a quiet conversation.

Today
we ran the distance
together
and then
I turned to look at
the young woman beside me
and wondered
where all the
years
have gone.

Responsive Teaching

The past two days, I had the opportunity to share my passion for reading and my belief in reading workshop with other educators. After agonizing over my presentation for weeks, it was not until I was lying in bed the night before the first presentation that one word came to mind to describe reading workshop.

A workshop model is responsive.

When teachers are able to sit with students, confer with them about what they are reading, and then decide what skills those students need, that is the heart of responsive teaching. A workshop model allows teachers to formatively assess their students through conferences and guided practice, and then they are able to determine their students' needs and address them through mini-lessons, teaching them strategies along the way to make them better readers.

When school districts mandate that teachers use a basal reader, or textbook, to teach reading skills, those skills are being taught without regard to the individual readers in the classroom. A basal reader includes grade level stories and articles along with teaching resources. If followed with fidelity, most programs tell teachers the exact order in which they have to teach the stories and the skills. Unfortunately, individual student needs are not taken into account with this prescriptive method.

It is interesting to me that the dictionary definition of basal is "forming or belonging to a bottom or base."  What happens when students are expected to read the basal, yet they don't have the basic skills needed to be able to access the text? The reality is that so many of our students are reading below grade level, yet they are continually being given materials that are on grade level through programs from educational publishers. Where is the "base" for these students who keep getting pushed along as their grade level rises but their reading level does not?

Pernille Ripp, an educator and author that I respect and follow on social media, just posted a quote on Instagram from Richard Allington's "What Really Matters When Working with Struggling Readers." It is, "...no research existed then, or exists now, to suggest that maintaining fidelity to a core reading program will provide effective reading lessons." Teachers have told me that they have been told that they have to use a textbook because they "don't have a core reading program." Since when are our students not at the core of everything we do? Reading workshop IS a core reading program, and it takes into account all readers at all levels every minute of the class period.

In a reading workshop model, students are able to work on their vocabulary, comprehension, and fluency in materials that they can read and that they want to read. Teachers are then able to meet students where they are and nudge them forward with one-on-one conferences. When teachers notice that students are missing particular skills or need extra practice with a previously taught concept, they are able to respond to those needs by teaching them strategies they can carry with them throughout their reading lives.

Giving kids time to read and books they want to read is one of the most important things we can do for them. Every day they should be having authentic reading experiences in which they use strategies to tackle whatever text they are reading, and we should be there beside them, ready to support them when they need it most. We should be having rich conversations with them about what they are reading. Reading workshop includes a great deal of on-the-spot teaching, which I would argue, can have more impact on individual readers than anything else. Workshop allows teachers to respond immediately to readers' needs instead of waiting for those skills to appear somewhere in a textbook. Yes, it takes work; yes, it is easier for someone to tell us what to teach. But shouldn't we focus on what is best for our students?

Riding in the Car with My Teenage Daughter

There are many ways to measure growth. We may hang an oversized ruler on a wall and mark different milestones in a child's life. We may keep track of stats from doctor's visits. We may take pictures every year in front of a birthday cake. Yet sometimes we don't even recognize the growth in the child sitting beside us day in and day out. Seemingly in the blink of an eye, it just happens.

One morning on the way to school, I happened to glance at my daughter, sitting in the passenger seat. Long brown hair, long eyelashes, hazel eyes fixed ahead - the same eyes that had just been rolling at me moments before. The scowl that had been on her face replaced by a smile as she started singing aloud to the song coming from her phone, which, these days, is never far from her hand.

I'm not sure when she evolved from the little girl in pigtails in her carseat in the back to this young woman suddenly sitting beside me. Long gone are the days of listening to Dora the Explorer songs on repeat. Gone are the days of looking in the rearview mirror to see her tiny hands grasping her white blanket, sparkling eyes and cute smile peeking back at me. Gone are the car rides filled with singing ABCs, playing games, and listening to stories of what she did at preschool instead of taking a nap.

These days, I find that many of our car rides are spent in silence or punctuated only by the music coming from my daughter's phone. I ask questions that yield one word answers, and then her attention is diverted elsewhere to anything more captivating than a mom trying to make conversation. I know that this is part of being a teenager, but I don't think I was prepared for this measure of growth. I miss that little voice in the back seat.

Just as I did when she was younger, I have started to truly cherish these car rides, though on a different level. I'm not sure that the fact that she is growing up has ever been more evident to me than it is right now. We may not discuss the day in the same detail as her younger self would allow, but we are together. One day all of her possessions won't be strewn througout my car - it will be empty. One day we won't be arguing about homework or dinner or what she forgot at home. One day I won't be driving her to and from activities, constantly in a rush. The next time I get frustrated because I find trash under the front seat or have to drive back and forth across town, I need to stop and remind myself that this stage of her life is just another mark on the continuing growth chart that I will look back on with wonder as to how it filled so fast.

Regardless of how many eye rolls or exasperated huffs I get, I have come to appreciate my teenager's current love language. After many rough morning starts, most of our rides start with, "Any song requests?" and then the rest of our ride is spent sharing a very diverse range of music that inevitably brings us both to a common ground where we don't have to speak to know that the love is there. She may not tell me in words, but I can usually gain insight into her emotions from her music choice of the day. I may not be able to make her belly-laugh like I could when she was little, but my car rapping skills never fail to bring a smile to her face. And if nothing else, we start and finish our day together, just the two of us.

So until the day comes when she gets into her own car and drives away, I'm going to let my no-longer-little-girl push play and sit back and enjoy the music.

Why Kids Need to Read the Tough Stuff

"You know the thing about magic, Charlie? We can wish on clovers and shooting stars and ice flowers all we want. But in the end, the only real magic is what's inside us and the people we love. Some things are beyond even that magic."

On this unusually quiet and uneventful Saturday afternoon, I have just finished the last pages of Kate Messner's newest book The Seventh Wish. This is a book that has been on my radar for months, and I am finding it hard to put into words the plethora of emotions I am feeling as I close it.

Back in June, I heard reports that a librarian had rescinded her invitation for Kate Messner to speak to students at her school. You can read Messner's blog post about it here.  I find it completely unfathomable that anyone would keep this book out of the hands of children. In fact, children are the ones that NEED to read it.

The Seventh Wish is about Charlie, a typical middle-school-aged girl who has a close family and loves Irish dancing. One day, Charlie goes ice fishing with her neighbor and his grandmother, where she catches a quite unusual fish - one with emerald eyes who offers to grant her a wish if she throws him back. Not believing what is happening, Charlie makes a wish to see if there is any truth to it.  Her wish comes true, but not necessarily the way she had hoped. She continues going back to the same fishing spot and makes more wishes, all of which come true but in convoluted ways. Just when she starts to think that maybe her wishes are causing more trouble than good, Charlie's sister Abby has some complications in her own life and starts down a path that Charlie struggles to understand. Charlie quickly finds out that all the wishes in the world can't change what is happening to her sister and her family.

In the midst of a story about friendship, family, and usual middle grade worries, Messner has expertly and tastefully written about addiction in a way that is both relevant and appropriate for upper elementary to middle grade readers. She has included all of the typical tween worries - friends, boys, extracurricular activities, family - with a touch of magic that creates a scenario that is just the tiniest bit outside the realm of possibility to make it feel real. The way in which she handles the topic of addiction is both realistic and gentle, yet it is not the sole focus of the book that runs deep with other themes.

According to the Partnership for Drug-Free Kids, one in ten Americans is addicted to alcohol and drugs.  The children sitting in our classrooms have probably encountered someone with an addiction at some point in their lives, and if they haven't, they probably will.  What better way to help them understand and process this very real sickness than through literature? Addiction is real.  It affects everyone involved, and it will for a lifetime. There are children that sit in my classroom every day that I know need to read this book.  There are children all across the country that need to read this book.  They need  to hear these words, over and over:

"'There's nothing you can do when someone you love is an addict. So you just...' She shrugs. 'You keep living. And do other stuff.'"

I wish this book had been around when I was in middle school.  I wish I had had a teacher that handed it to me, urging me to read it so I could feel a little less alone. Growing up with someone who has an addiction is draining.  It is so hard for children to understand, and sometimes it seems like life is full of one broken promise after another. Charlie and Abby's story on the pages of this book was so heartfelt and real, I found myself tearing up with recognition of all of the emotions they were feeling.

Toward the end of the book, Abby describes addiction in a way that is so straightforward and true, defining it in a way that is often extremely difficult for children or those outside the addiction to even begin to understand:

"That's the whole thing with addiction, Charlie. And it's the worst thing in the whole world. Knowing that you want to promise and never, ever hurt the people you love again. And knowing that the addiction is bigger than you, bigger than love, bigger than everything. If I made that promise, I'd be lying. And I'm not going to do that."

Who are we, as adults, to deny children the opportunity to read a book because it deals with an issue that is mature, yet very real in their lives? We can never tell which book will be the one that changes a child's life. Books that are relevant to children's lives are the ones to which they need access. They need to read about characters that they can believe in and that can give them hope in some of life's most difficult situations.

The Seventh Wish spoke to my heart, and I wholeheartedly believe that it belongs on classroom and library shelves everywhere. Children need to read about tough subjects. Adults may feel uncomfortable discussing them with children, but isn't it better to provide children with a safe place for them to glean understanding and feel less alone? Children often experience these tough subjects in their everyday lives, and by censoring the books that explore them so eloquently, we are robbing them of feelings of connection and humanity. Children need to know that they are not alone in their experiences, especially when they are at such a critical age of development. While every book may not be right for every child, books such as this one are right for many children, and they deserve to be on our shelves so those children can discover them.

Loving, Losing, and Living

It's amazing to me that life still goes on after losing someone you love.  You spend your life loving them, looking up to them, relying on their voice to be on the other end of the phone, and then, just like that, they are gone. The world keeps spinning, regardless of your attempts to slow it down. Other people are unaware of the significance of a certain date, of the emotional punch it carries for you. Yet it happens - the sun rises on a new day, one that is missing a piece of the one before it, and somehow you keep going. You learn to look for meaning and find significance in things that give you hope.

May 6, 2013 is the last time my dad ever told me he loved me. When my sister went home to get some much needed rest, I was suddenly in charge of making one of the most critical decisions of my dad's life in a frantic rush to get him into emergency surgery. After weeks, months even, of trying to figure out why he was so sick, doctors knew they had to get inside for answers before his health got even worse. As I went with him to prep for the surgery that I had okayed, he and I both knew that there was a strong possibility he may not survive the surgery. I remember he - the man who was always terrified of being on an operating table - told me he was so tired and wanted to proceed.  I promised I would bring him a Coke as soon as he woke up, something I have remembered every single day for the past three years.

The next five days could be simultaneously described as both a whirlwind and as the longest days of my life.  Looking back, it seems like weeks passed between his surgery and the day that he actually left this world. In reality, it was just five short days, a culmination of months of suffering, as his body, unknown to anyone else - including his doctors - slowly poisoned itself from the inside.

Losing a parent is hard. Even when you can describe your relationship with that parent as tumultuous at times. As much as I always longed for it, my dad and I never had the ideal relationship.  He had his faults, I have mine, and we tended to butt heads on many occasions. People close to me have a hard time understanding why I still tried to be close to my dad, why I picked up the phone after the hurtful words he hurled at me that always left me in tears. They find it hard to believe that I can still shed tears because I  miss him.

Regardless of our problems, he was my dad.  There is no denying the bond between a parent and child. My dad was the one person I always wanted to make proud. While he could indeed be quite truculent at times, he also had a heart of gold.  He would have given the last thing he had to someone in need.  He was one of the most brilliant men I have ever known.  He may have had some strange ways of showing it, but, to quote Edgar Allan Poe, he loved my mom "with a love that was more than love."  He taught me the value of hard work, to always change my oil, and that birthdays and holidays are special occasions. I would be lying if I said I didn't learn some colorful language from him, and I'm sure I got a little bit of his temper too. Many times in my life, I felt like I'd never quite measure up to the kind of daughter he wanted, but deep down somehow I always knew he loved me - and that's what kept me constantly striving for that relationship with him that I always wanted.

It's ironic to me that I ended up alone with him on the morning of his surgery. Of my dad's three daughters, I may not have been the most preferred, but there I was.  He was so scared, but I also got the sense that he was at peace with the decision we made. I got to have a few quiet moments alone with him where we had some very important conversations, which made me feel like I had somehow been placed in that moment for a reason. If nothing else, he was able to see that despite all of the other baggage in our lives, I was beside him, and I really hope that made him proud and feel loved.

In the last few months of his life, my dad unknowingly presented my sisters and me with a gift that I wouldn't trade for anything in the world. His gift to us was that the three of us now have a bond that will never be severed. I have no idea how any one of us would have gotten through the months leading up to his passing without the other two.  Whether on the other end of the phone, in a text message, curled up in a hospital chair, we were beside each other every step of the way, and that is something for which I will be eternally grateful.

My dad had quite a sad childhood, which I think influenced many of the decisions he made in his life. I'm not sure that he always felt loved, so he sought love in different ways. When he took his last breaths on May 10, the three of us held his hands and filled that hospital room with an abundance of love.  I sure hope he felt it, as I know we did.

It's always amazing to me how books come into my life at just the right time.  Every time I read something, I can glean new meaning from it. When I was reading aloud the book Wonder by R.J. Palacio for probably the fifth time not long after my dad died, a passage jumped out at me.  Two of the characters in the book were discussing death, and one said,

"I think when people die, their souls go to heaven but just for a little while. Like that’s where they see their old friends and stuff, and kind of catch up on old times. But then I actually think the souls start thinking about their lives on earth, like if they were good or bad or whatever. And then they get born again as brand-new babies in the world."

Camden, my two-year-old daughter, was born on February 10, 2014 - nine months to the day after my dad died. I look at her sometimes and feel so incredibly blessed that she is even here. After a miscarriage and a year of failed attempts to get pregnant, suddenly there she was - after I had lost one of the most important people in my life.   She's smart, funny, sweet, and spunky. I like to think that she is all the good things that my dad always wanted to be in his lifetime. I know there were things in his life that he wished he had done differently. When I look at this little miracle of a child, I see his opportunity to get it right.  Somehow the magical timing of his death and her beginning of existence gives me a peace I never knew I needed.

There is not a day that goes by that I do not think of my dad. There are many days that I want to pick up the phone to tell him something about my day.  I don't think I will ever stop trying to make him proud.  Every May I will most likely relive the final days of my dad's life, but as the years pass, I am able to look back on that time and feel a sense of purpose.  His struggle was not for nothing. There was meaning behind everything that took place, and that, along with my memories, is what I will carry in my heart. Losing someone is never easy, but the meaning it has brought to my living is what gets me through.

The Power of Co-Teaching

A co-taught classroom can be one of the most powerful tools you have to truly reach all of your students. I was fortunate to work with the same co-teacher for seven years. Throughout that time, we learned each other's idiosyncrasies and personalities, and ended up becoming not only teaching partners, but wonderful friends. We reached a point in our co-teaching relationship where we could finish each other's sentences.

When I found out that my co-teacher was leaving the division, I was extremely nervous about starting all over. It was like a relationship had ended and I was back in the dating game. Luckily, my new co-teacher and I have a lot of similarities, and we have developed a strong partnership in the classroom in just three short months. This became even more evident to me yesterday.

Our inclusion class is challenging this year. We have a large class of students who have a plethora of needs. My co-teacher and I meet almost daily, despite the fact that she is also working with two other teachers as well. We problem-solve, research ideas, and try new strategies all the time.

When we received scores from our first benchmark, it became clear that we needed to do more. We were not reaching a handful of our students.

We have been trying to implement station teaching as much as possible, but stations are only effective when they are being done for the right reasons. Sometimes I think we make up things to do in stations for the sake of saying we are using stations. My co-teacher and I sat down and carefully planned our learning objectives and what would best suit our students. We talked, planned, researched, emailed, texted, changed our minds a few times, and then formulated a plan.

The result was probably one of the very best teaching moments of my (only ten-year) teaching career. Had someone walked into our classroom, they would have seen all students engaged, learning, and working on their individual levels.

We had a carefully planned schedule for each student. Each student visited three stations for 20 minutes during the class period. In the independent reading station, students read self-chosen books on their independent reading levels. This is an everyday occurrence in our class, but they were doing it in a smaller group instead of everyone at once. In another station, my co-teacher taught a mini-lesson on summarizing and then guided the students as they practiced the strategy. In a third station, students completed word work and studied vocabulary words using interactive materials on the iPads. Finally, I met with a group at the guided reading station, where students read a story and we worked on retelling while reteaching story elements.

At the end of the period, we could not have been happier.  Our normally rambunctious class had been quietly engaged for the entire time - reading, writing, and learning. We were able to work with struggling learners on a more individualized basis. I heard students read and measured their comprehension through the conversations we had about a text. We were able to deliver immediate strategy instruction, which we hope can only benefit our students.

It is difficult to describe just how great it felt to feel like we finally accomplished what we have been working so hard to figure out. But I think we have finally taken the first steps to creating a classroom structure that will benefit every student and allow them to grow as readers and writers with the right support. In addition, we used one of the most important tools we have - the power of two.