On March 13, I left school weighed down, both by the massive pile of grading in my backpack and by the uncertainty about the future. On April 13, we will start up again. The grading will be electronic, and probably considerably less, but the uncertainty is still very much there. What will class look like? How will I connect with students? How do I reach those who are unable or unwilling to engage in distance learning? How do I have video calls without children or piles of laundry embarrassing me in the background? And, most importantly, can I do all this while still in my pyjamas?
 |
| Plenty to do during the "break". |
A frustration has been that at our site at least, teachers have been moving a lot quicker than the district, which has been moving quicker than the county, which has been moving quicker than the state, which has been...You get the picture. Finally, though, there seems to be some clarity to the plan moving forward, although what that will really look like on a day to day basis is anyone's guess.
One of the initiatives our district has put in place during this time of distance learning is a "do no harm" policy when it comes to grades. Any work students do during this time period can only help their overall grade in the class. It cannot lower it. When I consider the difficulties and stressors faced by many of our students at home, it makes sense. Being at school levels the playing field somewhat, mitigating some -- but certainly not all -- of the impact that children's very different home experiences have on their education.
This, however, was not my initial response to the policy. Like many teachers, I was deeply skeptical. A student who had an A on March 13 is now guaranteed that A at the end of the semester and has no obligation to do any work whatsoever. My mind reeled with the change: the traditional carrot and stick approach is now all carrots. And who wants carrots when you can have cake?
Of course, there were the platitudes from administrators about focusing on the learning and not the points. You come and teach my class, I wanted to say, before essentially preparing to present the same argument to my students.
As I hosted a Google Meet for my AP Literature students last week, I explained the new policy. And as I did so, I suddenly felt powerless. So much of the authority I wield as a teacher lies in the fact that students have to be there and that I have the power to impact their futures with my assignments and assessments. When I think about students who fail my class, the one trait they all have in common is that those things do not motivate them. These, it is no coincidence, are also the students who present the biggest behavioral problems.
So that was my first "gut check": my power to mandate and enforce has vanished. I will now have to rely on my ability to appeal to students' intrinsic motivation. And there are many strong arguments for continuing to learn when the rewards and consequences are not immediately obvious. I have been challenging my students in the lead up to this next Monday -- when we "go back to school" -- to embrace this unprecedented moment when they can learn without fear of failure.
My own fear of failure, however, looms large whenever I sit down at my makeshift workstation in my bedroom. During the three week break only about 30 of my 80 AP Lit students participated in my Google Meet readings of Hamlet; a handful reached out via email to ask what they could do to increase their grades, and still fewer listened to the podcasts I made every day. If only 50% of my AP students, who have huge exams coming up in May, were engaged during this time, it doesn't augur well for my other classes.
One of the initiatives our district has put in place during this time of distance learning is a "do no harm" policy when it comes to grades. Any work students do during this time period can only help their overall grade in the class. It cannot lower it. When I consider the difficulties and stressors faced by many of our students at home, it makes sense. Being at school levels the playing field somewhat, mitigating some -- but certainly not all -- of the impact that children's very different home experiences have on their education.
This, however, was not my initial response to the policy. Like many teachers, I was deeply skeptical. A student who had an A on March 13 is now guaranteed that A at the end of the semester and has no obligation to do any work whatsoever. My mind reeled with the change: the traditional carrot and stick approach is now all carrots. And who wants carrots when you can have cake?
Of course, there were the platitudes from administrators about focusing on the learning and not the points. You come and teach my class, I wanted to say, before essentially preparing to present the same argument to my students.
As I hosted a Google Meet for my AP Literature students last week, I explained the new policy. And as I did so, I suddenly felt powerless. So much of the authority I wield as a teacher lies in the fact that students have to be there and that I have the power to impact their futures with my assignments and assessments. When I think about students who fail my class, the one trait they all have in common is that those things do not motivate them. These, it is no coincidence, are also the students who present the biggest behavioral problems.
So that was my first "gut check": my power to mandate and enforce has vanished. I will now have to rely on my ability to appeal to students' intrinsic motivation. And there are many strong arguments for continuing to learn when the rewards and consequences are not immediately obvious. I have been challenging my students in the lead up to this next Monday -- when we "go back to school" -- to embrace this unprecedented moment when they can learn without fear of failure.
My own fear of failure, however, looms large whenever I sit down at my makeshift workstation in my bedroom. During the three week break only about 30 of my 80 AP Lit students participated in my Google Meet readings of Hamlet; a handful reached out via email to ask what they could do to increase their grades, and still fewer listened to the podcasts I made every day. If only 50% of my AP students, who have huge exams coming up in May, were engaged during this time, it doesn't augur well for my other classes.
The truth is, I want my students to want to participate in my activities. I'm insecure. My ego needs massaging. Put it any way you want: I take it personally when students don't do my work. I feel like a failure as a teacher when I realise that the only reason students are doing my work is because they have to. Sure, they -- mostly -- enjoy my class. They appreciate my attempts to meaningfully connect with them. But what do those smiling faces, kind words, and fun banter count for when it's no longer mandatory? I pour a lot of myself into my classes and my students, but I worry that they're only doing it for the grades and not for the meaningful interaction. Who am I kidding? They're high schoolers: of course they're doing it for the grades! That's the system's fault, and I am an integral, complicit part of that system.
Worse still, I am coming to the realization that many of my students don't actually need me at all. My AP students, for example, are talented kids, many of whom are much smarter than I am. They don't really even need me to prepare them for this year's truncated AP test. 45 minutes to write an essay on a prose passage? They have the whole internet at their disposal and 5 weeks to prepare. I was watching an AP Lit review webinar this morning. There are going to be about 25 of these daily lessons. They don't need me at all!
Yes, I know that there are a lot of my students, particularly my freshmen with special needs, whom the federal government has spectacularly and unforgivably tried to claim are no longer our responsibility, that desperately need guidance. They don't do their work a lot of the time. Those classes are often chaotic and very difficult to teach effectively. I know for sure many of them will see words like "optional" and see the writing on the wall. That will lead to a different kind of sadness: the sadness of seeing young people wasting their opportunity and not valuing their free public education.
One of the perks of being a teacher is the feeling of fulfillment that comes with knowing you're making a difference. I would love to claim that it it's a pure, noble, altruistic feeling, but to be perfectly honest, it's also a massive ego boost. And now that's gone, too.
I also think that one of things that makes me a decent teacher is the ability to connect with students. I do make an effort. I do care. It's an emotionally exhausting but wonderfully rewarding aspect of my life and it's why graduation is such an emotional occasion for me. It's also why it takes me several days to decompress after the end of the school year. I think it's because I'm grieving. And that grieving process has already started. I really miss my students, even the knuckleheads. Especially the knuckleheads.
It's been hard to come to terms with this truth, let alone admit it, but my students don't need me anywhere near as much as I need them.
Worse still, I am coming to the realization that many of my students don't actually need me at all. My AP students, for example, are talented kids, many of whom are much smarter than I am. They don't really even need me to prepare them for this year's truncated AP test. 45 minutes to write an essay on a prose passage? They have the whole internet at their disposal and 5 weeks to prepare. I was watching an AP Lit review webinar this morning. There are going to be about 25 of these daily lessons. They don't need me at all!
Yes, I know that there are a lot of my students, particularly my freshmen with special needs, whom the federal government has spectacularly and unforgivably tried to claim are no longer our responsibility, that desperately need guidance. They don't do their work a lot of the time. Those classes are often chaotic and very difficult to teach effectively. I know for sure many of them will see words like "optional" and see the writing on the wall. That will lead to a different kind of sadness: the sadness of seeing young people wasting their opportunity and not valuing their free public education.
One of the perks of being a teacher is the feeling of fulfillment that comes with knowing you're making a difference. I would love to claim that it it's a pure, noble, altruistic feeling, but to be perfectly honest, it's also a massive ego boost. And now that's gone, too.
I also think that one of things that makes me a decent teacher is the ability to connect with students. I do make an effort. I do care. It's an emotionally exhausting but wonderfully rewarding aspect of my life and it's why graduation is such an emotional occasion for me. It's also why it takes me several days to decompress after the end of the school year. I think it's because I'm grieving. And that grieving process has already started. I really miss my students, even the knuckleheads. Especially the knuckleheads.
It's been hard to come to terms with this truth, let alone admit it, but my students don't need me anywhere near as much as I need them.
No comments:
Post a Comment