What is Risky?

photo courtesy morguefile.com

Randomness abounds, this time of year.  There are two - count them - two, days left before final exams begin.   I love this time of year, despite the constant revisions to the piles of research papers, the pleas for "just one more chance" to do some extra credit to boost that grade, and the endless game of cat-pursuing-mouse I am playing with students who owe me work.  

Why do I chase them?  Because it's easier than filling out the paperwork for an Incomplete on the report card.  If I catch them now, it's all over next week.  If I don't, well, chances are darned good that next semester's class will have a familiar face staring at me for another 90 days, repeating the course.

The love isn't for the thrill of the hunt, it's for the thrill of the presentations.   The Themes in Literature classes have dug out their Inquiry Questions just one more time to dig deep for their group presentations.  It was during that time today that Taylor said that she was still waiting.

For what?

The answer to a blog post from December, 2014.   

What is risky?

risk·y

ˈriskē/

adjective

adjective: risky; comparative adjective: riskier; superlative adjective: riskiest

full of the possibility of danger, failure, or loss.

"it was much too risky to try to disarm him"

synonyms:

dangerous, hazardous, perilous, high-risk, fraught with danger, unsafe, insecure, precarious, touch-and-go, treacherous, parlous

Thanks, Google, for the definition.  

Risky is not a thing in my classroom.  (Which stands to reason, what with it being an adjective, according to Google.  Yet gifted kids seem to fear risk more than the soulless eyes of zombies chasing them.)  In fact, risky is the exact opposite of anything.  Risky is NOTHING.  

Yes, I'm talking in circles, and yes, I'm still squinting at my computer screen as a victim of Post Concussion Syndrome, having overdosed on my alotted screen time for today.  Risky is something that I dwell upon, think about, and bemuse much more than I should.  To me, Risky is the very idea of any of my students failing to face danger, failure or loss, because they are too afraid to try.  

What causes kids, particularly gifted kids, to fail to try?  Well, heck, most of the time it has something to do with those ROUND SHAPED grades.  You know, Bs, Cs, Ds.  The fear of a grade that doesn't look like the side of a 60s swingset, complete with crossbar.  (You know what I mean -- we all hung upside down by our knees from that bar, or teased someone who did, with a rhyme about London, France, and underpants.)

Tomorrow the TDO Presentations begin.  Talent Development Opportunities are all about risk.  There's no target, no rubric.  The only promise is the guarantee of a 95%, regardless of the success of the project.  In fact, the only way to NOT do well on TDOs in my class is to turn in reflection papers (due 3 x a semester) late.  Those reflections are only scored for their reflective quality, and not the success or failure of the project.

So, Taylor, and the rest of my TDO Creators, What is risky?

Absolutely nothing.  No chance of danger, failure or loss.  You're all winners in my book.  Move forward, bare your souls, share your accomplishments, and admit to your failures.  And realize that every single thing you did, that mattered as you did it, has value to you.  Find it, recognize it, embrace it.  Learn from it, move forward, carrying that learning in your pocket.  Motivate your classmates with your stories, inspire your teacher to draw on another page in her barebook, and start thinking about what happens in two short weeks, when the 2nd semester begins.

Because if you think you faced risk this semester, just wait!

Climb Every Mountain.

I can't tell you off the top of my head exactly how many letters of recommendation I've written in seventeen years of teaching.  Between letters to colleges, potential employers, scholarship committees, and elite summer programs, I have amassed quite a collection of letters in my "Recommendations" file, and frequently scan the list of previous students, trying to find another of similar character or stature.   Most of the time, when writing recommendation letters, the recipient is entirely unfamiliar with the candidate, and it is up to the recommender (aka me) to introduce my exceptional student to them.

The same can not be said for letters headed to the pinnacle of Scouting achievement.  Climbing Eagle Mountain, to the rank of Eagle Scout, is a journey that truly begins with a single step.  Beginning as a tiny Tiger Cub, the mottoes are rehearsed, the derbies are run, the character is built -- all the while, the scoutmasters view each and every step, watching the refinement of the young man, and his character.  As a teacher, writing a letter of recommendation TO the scouts ABOUT a student hoping to achieve the highest rank, is particularly difficult -- honestly, what can I say about this fine young man that THEY don't already know?  Regardless of the challenge, writing the letter is both a privilege and an honor.  It also offers time to pause and reflect on the young man that that tiny boy, that I've known for years, has become.  

Today, I attended the Eagle Scout Ceremony for James. 

I first laid eyes on James at the Pennsylvania Association for Gifted Education conference.  He was four years old, half asleep in an umbrella stroller, after a day at the Philadelphia Zoo with his father.  His mother and brother were attending the conference, and this tiny blonde boy was introduced to me, barely able to keep his eyes open, let alone make eye contact or shake my hand.  "He'll be in your class soon!" I was told.  

And in short time he was.  mastering tasks, skipping grades, taking high school classes, while other kids his age were sitting in elementary school classrooms.   His interests are far-reaching, and so are his accomplishments.  He's a master musician, a scout, an historian who has gone to Nationals in National History Day competition.  He's spent 66 nights camping with the scouts, and earned several dozen merit badges.  And you know what the highlight of the ceremony for me was?

Seeing James admit to, and share, an unfinished, highly mangled, handwoven basket.

Climb Every Mountain.

Go ahead, cue the music from Sound of Music in your head.  (More than a few of us in attendance were subconsciously humming it, given the many references to the "path up Eagle Mountain." )   The journey to greatness -- any greatness -- is a single step.  (yada, yada, yada...)  And the other thing about that journey, which is rarely shown or discussed, is the unfinished, highly mangled, handwoven basket.  Those who know me well know that I am desperately trying to create an acronym out of UHMHWB that can serve as a grand motivational tool for others -- but even I know that won't catch on.  Still, I applaud James for sharing a failure in the midst of his celebration of achievement.

My friend, Seth, the author of Khembond's Corner, recently waxed poetic on this very topic:

"I hate to tell them, but failure is always an option and sometimes even a desired outcome. It builds resilience, a trait that is missing in the next generation. It builds grit. It educates us, if we allow it too. It provides necessary feedback. If we are honest we should be asking to push ourselves to the failing point just to make ourselves better."

I've spent most of my break reading Little Bets:  How Breakthrough Ideas Emerge from Small Discoveries, by Peter Sims.  Seeing James' basket today, served as a reminder to me of the importance of admitting to, and embracing, failure.  Sims' book illustrates the importance of this as well, in its study of some pretty powerful failures that motivated success for Steve Jobs, comedian Chris Rock, architect Frank Gehry, and the teams at Pixar.  The embracing of failure by each of these heavyweights has led to an entire study of the power of failure.

So James, congratulations on attaining the rank of Eagle Scout.  More importantly, congratulations on failing at basket-weaving -- and admitting it.  Don't throw away that basket.  Peter Sims may be writing about you in the next few years, and need pictures for his next book.  Meanwhile, enjoy the view from the top of Eagle Mountain.

 

Happy New Year: Resolutions and Inspirations!

"One of the advantages of being disorganized is that one is always having surprising discoveries."  - Winnie the Pooh.

Shortly after midnight, I awoke to the wonders of 2016.  I've never been a big New Year's Eve celebrator, and last night was no exception, so a bedtime before midnight shouldn't come as a surprise to those who know me well.  The concussion confusion continues, particularly when I'm surrounded by combinations of music and multiple conversations, so I opted out of the gracious invitations to celebrate with friends.  

I spent the evening cleaning and organizing my sewing space, discovering all sorts of projects - some started, some merely stacks of patterns and fabric, waiting to be made.  I emptied the closet, and baskets, and boxes, and, well, all sorts of containers, working my hardest to make sense out of what I'd stashed away at some previous time. Maybe 2016 will be the year where I finally know where everything has a place, and I remember where that place actually is.  For during the purge, I found not only Bruce's birthday present, but the elusive Claude Girioux ornament for Kristin that has been MIA since Christmas 2014.  

There's nothing like a brain injury to force one into organizing for the sake of sanity.  Suffice it to say, there are now piles for donation, piles that have been bagged and hauled out to the trash, and a significant pile of things to go to school on Monday.  

Yes, school.

Resolutions and Inspirations...

About a week ago, I discovered the Teacher Resolutions from the folks at thepensivesloth.com.  A number of the resolutions resonated with me -- particularly #4 - I will resist the urge to shove things into drawers and cabinets, because doing so is not the same as "organizing" my classroom."

I gotta say, in my own defense, that sometimes this allegedly bad habit can lead to some amazing inspiration.  It's easy, halfway through the year, to look at the second semester as that old line, "2nd verse, same as the first," and simply change the dates on the lesson plans from the first semester, reteaching the same lessons in the same old way.  Much like the excitement of unwrapping Christmas gifts on the 25th of December, I've discovered new inspiration in the stashes in my sewing room -- and am actually looking forward to digging through some cabinets at school to see what surprises await.  

I'm excited to return to school full time on Monday, for the first time since September.  I've got that Labor Day feeling - sketching out the future, and refining the past, which is an unusual feeling to have in the dead of winter.  I've never been the countdown person (see Resolution #12), but it's mostly because I 1)LOVE MY JOB, and 2) am not organized or mathematical enough to keep accurate count.

So January begins, and my heart is just a bit more excited about getting back to the classroom.  For there is only one thing for teachers that is more exciting than the infinite possibilities of teaching every single day - and that would be the giddy anticipation of the winter right of passage - a 2 hour delay, when we breathe, seek further inspiration on Pintrest, and clean out a few closets or drawers in search of more things to box up and take to school.  After all, the classroom is truly my second home.

Happy New Year!  May 2016 be the year or taking risks, daring to fail, and wondering about limitless possibilities.

Community should be a verb.

This past week, I resorted to an oldie but goodie elementary school technique -- "The Class Meeting."  Yes, I teach high school now, and yes, I did completely abandon the intended lesson and the be-all-end-all ESSENTIAL QUESTION posted on the board, because, quite frankly, the EQ in my world instantly became,

"How can you go to school with someone DAY AFTER DAY, YEAR AFTER YEAR, and have NO CLUE what that person's NAME is? 

Being your basic neurotic teacher, who is completely convinced that somehow you forgot to teach the most simple building-block skills, one can imagine the sense of shock, surprise, and - yes - GUILT, that I had somehow failed this class of freshmen.  And I wasn't even IN the room when it happened.

We're well into the second marking period, and we've started the "BIG" research paper assignment.  For freshmen, the thought of writing a FIVE PAGE research paper is beyond paralyzing, so we model, we teach, we reteach, we graphically organize, and we bring in guest speakers to assist in the overall success of what appears to be the "first big paper of high school."  On this particular day, my librarian friend was teaching a lesson on In-text Citations, MLA Formatting, and Works Cited Pages.  Riveting, right?

I had stepped into the hallway to talk to the five upper-level kids who are working in a less structured environment, to make sure that their thesis statements were sound.  I was out there less than 90 seconds, when Sara came to the door, reporting that one student had referred to another student with a racially inappropriate name.  We were both pretty dumbfounded at this behavior.

And then it happened.  Somehow, I FELT RESPONSIBLE for letting this class down.  Despite my first day of school anti-curriculum strategy,  these kids haven't bothered to get to know each other.  I thought I had given THEM  a chance to build a sense of community that day -- along with allowing me to get to know them -- but it hadn't happened. I assumed they knew each other, but the truth is that  they enter my classroom every day in small cliques of friends,avoiding other groups in the room.

I get that this class had been through a weird year so far, given that I have been out of school more than I've been there, given my concussion recovery.  Perhaps this is why the guilt I felt caused me to initiate the class meeting. (Or, more likely, the idea of trying to "write up" the entire incident in an electronic reporting system that is less than friendly, leaving the ultimate admonishment to parents and/or an administrator, caused me to go the more time-efficient path.) Regardless of the reason, we got out the green chairs  and got out from behind the desks.  

We sat in a circle, and people were uncomfortably forced encouraged to ask specific questions about each other.  "Where were you born?" "How did you get that scar?" etc.  And then there was a quiet, yet disgusted, voice.

"YOU don't really know her.  And you don't care. She's amazing.  She makes jewelry out of liquid metal.  She draws anime better than anyone in the world."  It was the voice of a supportive classmate that pushed the conversation to a new level.

I owned it.  I told them I had let them down, by not creating the sense of community they needed in my room to be successful.  It wasn't a line -- it was something I truly felt.  

In that one class, we learned that we have a rising singing star and a metalsmith.  We have athletes, and compassionate listeners.  We have people who trust, and people who doubt.

The conversation continued, and went to discussions about fear of ISIS attacks.  One kid asked whether I thought they'd try to attack the US.  Sadly, I said, yes.  Because CVS is sold out of green chairs, and nobody is working to foster a sense of community in the world.

As they waited for the bell at the end of the period, new friends admired the hand-forged ring, and listened to the process used to create it, and a voice said "this was the best class we ever had."  The response?

"The world needs to be more COMMUNITY."

Grammatically perfect, I'd say.  Imagine -- just imagine -- if COMMUNITY could become a verb.

 

Decisions, Decisions...

This morning, a smiling face walked into my room before the bell rang.  "I feel so RELIEVED!" announced the voice behind the face.  Quite honestly, the announcement was unwarranted, as the entire face, demeanor, and body language was one of someone who had finally HIT SUBMIT on the application to the college of his dreams over the weekend.  The stress is gone -- and now he waits.

I have full confidence in this particular kid's abilities to go to the gorgeous school where he already imagines himself walking through the leaves in the fall of 2016, playing soccer on the quad, and forging his path in this world.  He already loves the school, and I am confident that the admissions panel will instantly love him as well, as they peruse his application, submitted for EARLY DECISION.  Yes, he's made the decision to commit to this relationship -- now he waits for the binding invitation from the college to join them for a four-year commitment.  He described his desire as one of a "pit bull on a treadmill with a steak tied to the handle."  He just can't wait to catch the juicy prize.

Decisions, Decisions.

For guidance counselors, college advisers, and teachers of the gifted, every fall seems like Ground Hog Day this time of year.  The best and the brightest scurry around, surveying, visiting colleges, comparing deals, filling out FAFSAs, and hoping for an invitation to the perfect school at the perfect price, for the following September. Pulling together transcripts, writing countless letters of recommendation, completing applications, with careful writing, proofreading, and rewriting of essays, and a bevy of ability checklists analyzing the strengths of our students. Yes, we're about 12 weeks into this school year, and we're already focused on the next.

Does Early Decision help?  I'd argue that the simple possibility of choosing a college and KNOWING which college is waiting, possibly as early as before the first snowfall, has real impact on stress levels of high school seniors.   Some colleges and universities accept a significant percentage of their incoming class during this early decision period -- topping the list is Cornell, with a whopping 41% of its newbies knowing by Christmas that they'll need UGGS and woolies on their lists for Santa, in anticipation of an Ithaca winter - or four - in their impending future.  In addition to the emotional aspects of Early Decision, is the indisputable statistical proof that "agreeing to agree" early has its advantages.  The college admissions site, "In Like Me," provides valuable data that favors the Early Decision applicant. 

For a Teacher of the Gifted, it's especially difficult to answer the questions on the Common Application.  Who the heck are the "Top Few I've Ever Encountered"?  Clearly a TOG's "Top Few" is truly the gold standard in the student realm, compared to teachers who might be answering the same question having interacted with fewer of the best and the brightest in the school.  This has bothered me for a number of years -- wondering whether those on the other side of the application see a rating and consider that I get to see the true cream of the crop, and that the TOP FEW I'VE EVER ENCOUNTERED is truly an accomplishment.  Especially when I've known some of these kids for more than ten years.  

Recently, I had a conversation with a friend of mine in higher education, who assured me that admissions panels DO look at the relationship and roles that recommendation-writers have with the students, and recognize that those of us who spend much of our day with AP, Honors, and Gifted students certainly hand out those "Top Few" ratings to mean exactly that, and honor that recommendation as intended.

So yes, my dear student, rest easy.  Turn off the treadmill, stop chasing that steak, and enjoy your senior year.  Life is about living, and you've done your best. 

Keep Calm.  You've Already Hit Submit.

 

Fiddlesticks! (AKA "Can I borrow your brain?")

I'm still working half days at school, with the other half of the day reserved for closing my eyes or neurological therapy.  It's an interesting life, but not nearly as interesting as the "normal" life of Susan Heydt, Teacher.  There is a light at the end of the tunnel, although oncoming lights tend to make me rapidly close my eyes in a manner something akin to Dracula at dawn.

My day started with therapy, and I arrived at school before 2nd period ended.  One of my 9th graders came up to me and asked, "Can I borrow your brain for 3rd period?  I really need it to make it through English."

I must admit, it took more than a few seconds to translate the request, and then I realized he was pointing to the brain-shaped stress ball sitting on my desk.  A quick nod and toss, and he was on his way.  He promised to explain to his English teacher why he had it, and how he thought it would help him.  And he promised he wouldn't abuse it and get it confiscated.  He knew I had 3rd period prep, and didn't want to see it go unused.

As promised, it was returned to my room before 4th period began.

No Stress.... 

There are very few of us that are entirely focused all the time, when in a learning environment.  We doodle, zentangle, daydream.  We chew pen caps and fingernails, we fidget and tap.  From a teacher's perspective, it can be downright frustrating to watch the scootching, rocking, and wiggling of students in the classroom.  The societal expectation used to be "feet planted on the floor, straight backs, hands folded "- signifying the "ready to learn" mentality.

There's an increasing understanding among educators that a successful learning environment may not be rows of students arranged alphabetically, facing the front of the room.  I've talked before about the Green Chairs, standing tables, and other seemingly unusual classroom arrangements, and the reality is that teachers are looking for anything that will motivate and encourage learning.  

Check any office supply store -- the same motivation applies to corporate business.   There are ball chairs, finger gizmos, and all sorts of distractors/focusers.  Remember those metallic

balls that click together on the desk of every executive in the 60s?  Or Silly Putty, rubber bands, even baseballs, that are transferred from one hand to another to stimulate focus, creativity and innovation.  Heck, Google, and other big companies, are putting in entire playgrounds for their employees to kick back and chill, while working on the task at hand, building a sense of purpose and community.

Julie Beck talks about the value of stress toys in business in the July issue of The Atlantic, in her article entitled Stress Toys:  Mindlessness with a Purpose?   Interestingly, the business world is looking to educators, and educational research, to defend the use of the very fidget widgets teachers have seen in their classrooms for decades.  (Don't kid a kidder -- even if you weren't GIVEN a token to play with, there was SOMETHING in your desk, or on your body, that you snapped, chewed, twirled, or flicked.)  Simultaneously, educators are drooling at the creative and free environment that seems to be evolving in the business world.  

Do I mind lending my brain, my cow with the bulgy eyes, or my UHU tacky putty to kids to help them focus?  Absolutely not.  As long as they keep all four legs of their chairs on the floor while they're in my room (personal pet peeve, but I digress...), and return the toys at the end of the class, I'm one happy camper.  

And maybe, just maybe, they've learned a little bit more because of their attempt.

Grading without rose colored glasses.

It's four am.  I've been awake since 3:15, and finally succumbed to accepting the awake-state for the day, as my head continues to process all that needs to be done, and all that has been left undone over the last five weeks -- even after attempting four rounds of 4-7-8 to go back to sleep.  Usually it works.  Apparently today/tonight is not destined to be usual.

It's been a bit of a bumpy ride over the last five weeks, starting with the BUMP on the head, followed by learning to "not think" in an effort to improve.  Talk about oxymorons for teachers.  Early on, I was given orders by one doctor to improve brain healing:

1.  Decrease calories, eliminate artificial sweeteners.

2. Increase fish oil, Omega 3s

3. Limit screen time (tv, computer, smartphone) to a total of less than 2 hours  a day)

4. Wear earplugs

5. Rose Colored glasses.

Yes, it's true.  Rose colored glasses are supposed to have improved my brain functionality.  Unfortunately, my sunglasses choice is determined by the pair's ability to fit over my reading glasses, and sunglasses are sold in places with fluorescent lights -- which hurt my brain.  So despite my having secured written documentation for new eyewear in a color symbolizing optimism, I haven't actually made the purchase. 

Fortunately for me, I am light years better, and thinking more clearly every day.   I am back to half days of teaching -- shhh, don't tell the doctors that a half day of teaching for a teacher is really closer to 6 or 7 hours when you include the work at home.

In just about 36 hours, grades for the first marking period are due, with report cards scheduled to be printed and mailed next week.  25% of the school year is gone, leaving many of us scratching our heads wondering how the Fall of 2015 could travel at the speed of light.  (In my case, it sped by me, I believe, while I was under doctors' orders to avoid looking at lights, but I digress...)

Late Penalties?

There is nothing more motivating to a high school student than the impending doom of the end of the marking period.  "A flurry of activity" in my email inbox is an understatement:  it's been a downright blizzard of submissions of outstanding assignments and re-submissions by authors "hoping to regain some points" to improve the almighty grade for the quarter. (And, presumably, keep their rights to play on videogame systems, go hang out with friends, and talk on their cellphones, instead of being grounded for the foreseeable future.)    I've been out for two full weeks, and only in half days for the last three weeks.  I know that this is an unusual situation, and I've been more flexible with my assignment due dates than ever before.  (And I've always been pretty flexible -- my motto has always been "Talk to me BEFORE it's due, if you're not going to hit the due date -- not after!" , attempting to foster some executive function and communication skills that might be helpful in the real world down the road.)

In a recent blog entry, Tom Schimmer, and educator and fellow teacher, waxed philosophically on the ideas associated with grade penalties for late work.  More than a decade ago, our district pushed the philosophies of Ken O'Connor, HARD, encouraging us to grade on the quality of the work, and not the punctuality.  O'Connor's theory,

The punitive nature of the penalty is a powerful disincentive for students to complete any work.” 

 in theory, makes for a good argument for increasing student achievement.  It also does nothing to prepare students for college expectations or the real world.  I'm certain that if I failed to keep the lines of communication open with my administration and my substitute, simply shrugging my shoulders with a "I'll get to the work when I feel like it" attitude, there would be unpleasant repercussions.  

I'm not talking about "do-overs" here.  I'm talking about students who just plain fail to turn in assignments for WEEKS on end, and then expect full credit (as in 100%) for their efforts, or are choosing the 11th hour to realize that they actually DID care to prove competency at a higher level on that assignment that was due last September.  Let's face it.  In the real world, there are penalties for lateness.  Go ahead, mail your mortgage or credit card payment after that deadline, and see what happens.  Choose to ignore April 15th for the IRS.  Shrug your shoulders at your boss the next time that big report is due.  Chances are pretty good that none of those intended recipients are thinking of you as a 100% effort individual.

Tom Schimmer claims he never received a deluge of work, not penalizing students for lateness.  I beg to differ.  My earplugs and (metaphorical) rose colored glasses have given pause to much flexibility on my part this semester, and there are more holes in my gradebook than ever before.  

In theory, I have 3 hours of screen time, maximum, to allocate over the next 36 hours, to still be following the recommendations of my physician.  It's going to be darned tough to read and grade all of the assignments I anticipate receiving today and tomorrow, and still follow doctor's orders.

Fortunately, my syllabus contains a late work policy AND the suggestion to open the lines of communication BEFORE there is a problem.  I may be concussed, but I am still more flexible than the IRS, when it comes to deadlines.  There will be grades -- but they won't be anywhere near 100%.