Author: Glass

Our society is quick to recognize and applaud those who read early and those who read quickly. Sadly, that ability is too easily misconstrued as evidence of higher IQ and, equally damaging, greater maturity.  Too often, young children are “tracked” into classes based on their ability to read (aloud). Traditionally, early readers often skipped entire grades, only to run into unexpected walls later in their educational careers. It’s an easy assumption: If a child can read words aloud, s/he must be smart. And, of course, the converse: Slow readers must be, well, slow…

True teachers learn to recognize that trap with the help of students who are thoughtful, articulate, insightful, patient, and not necessarily speedy readers. I had such help early in my career, though it took Alexandra Smith in my 6^th grade homeroom, to open my eyes fully. Alexandra was a brilliant young woman in many ways. When one considers multiple intelligences, her scores on any athletic field, her EQ, and her logic were tops. She was not a fast reader. She rarely raised her hand.  Not surprising, given that a majority of teachers (at that time, at least) generally called on the first hands raised. Judging from previous report cards, teachers liked Alexandra – she was no trouble, after all – but few recognized her potential.

For reasons I cannot remember, I started calling on Alexandra, allowing her time to consider her response. Sometimes I gave her advance notice (“Zander,  tomorrow I’m going to ask you what you think about X.”); sometimes not. Her answers were stunning: detailed, supported, connecting dots few others had even seen. Zander was a “slow reader” because she read every word and thought about them all. She remains one of the most thoughtful and insightful students I’ve ever had in class.

We have so much to learn from our students. Ask kiddos how they learn best, and they will tell you. Pay attention. Give everyone time to process. Listen to the levels on which they think. Set the expectation in your classrooms that you are not looking for speed; you are looking for insight and logic, thought and questions.

My granddaughter did not have an easy time learning to read. She is quick, curious, uses a stunning vocabulary, can reason with the best of them. But reading was hard, and she was self-conscious of that. Fortunately, she has been blessed by a school and teachers who recognized both her strengths and her challenges early on. She was neither tracked nor typed. She did receive helpful one-on-one time. Her parents supported and applauded her for who she is. Were you to have a conversation with her, you would never guess that reading had been difficult. She speaks using sentence structure, grammar, and vocabulary that suggest a much older child. Thank goodness she is recognized and appreciated for who  and what she is, not who and what she isn’t. And thank goodness for Harry Potter, who ultimately engaged her so completely, that her ability to read suddenly and fully fell into place.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about a memorable, eye-opening, experience with a wonderful 8^th grade boy at The Langley School in Virginia. In that blog, I referenced another occasion of equal impact.

Another of our 8^th grade students, a young man from inner city Alexandria, missed school the day after Thanksgiving vacation because one of his friends in his community had been shot and killed. This was the second occasion where  someone about Keith’s age had  been murdered.

The next day, Keith was back in school. It was my practice, as Head of the Middle School, to visit each classroom first period every day. Doing so gave me a chance to observe teachers and students in action, as well as to touch base with kiddos who might need a bit of extra support.

On this particular morning, the rest of the 8^th grade had assembled as a group for some special exercise about which I remember nothing. What I do recall is one very mature Black kid sitting at the front of his empty classroom, head down, weeping. His teacher was there but didn’t know what to say or do. Neither did I, but I did know that sitting with Keith was the first step.  I will carry the image of this wonderful young man, head down, disconsolate, for the rest of my life.

After expressing condolences, I thought to ask Keith if he were afraid this might happen to him. At first he said no. Then he paused, shuddered, and quietly replied, “I don’t know.” 

“I don’t know.” Not a question for any of the White kids in our school, nor for their teachers. Keith’s “I don’t know” should be a reminder of the uncertainty with which so many live. None of us “knows” what might happen any given day, but most of us don’t have to consider that violence could easily have a role. At least that was true two decades ago in Virginia, if one were White.

During my long career as an educator, I was fortunate to work for and with colleagues for whom the practice of inclusivity was important. Some of my very best teachers were my students, who were willing to be honest. On this Martin Luther King Jr. day of recognition and celebration, I recall with deep appreciation and considerable pain two of those students. I will share one story today and one in future writing.

At The Langley School in McLean, Virginia, our 8^th graders’ history course included a major unit on World War II. Among other things, we read Night, by Elie Wiesel, and Hiroshima, by John Hersey. In follow up to the latter, the students debated whether or not the bomb should have been dropped. They were stunned one year when a girl of Japanese heritage argued in the affirmative. Her parents felt lives had been saved.

In follow up to Night, every year we held an Outcast Simulation. Over the course of a month, one day each week I would enter the classrooms and declare that random students would be outcasts for the day. Generally, my reasons were something like, “Mr. Silvano, I have just realized that you have some students born in January and August. I’m not sure how that happened, but we all know that they should not be treated as full citizens.” 

For the rest of the day, the outcasts had to enter classrooms last, could be excluded from games at recess, and teachers (not their classmates) could make them do menial tasks around the classroom.  At the end of each Outcast day, I would invite those who had been excluded into my office to welcome them “back” and ask how the experience affected them.  As is their wont, kids were open and appreciative, but it was all part of a game.

I don’t remember specific comments until one young man, a boy of Color who had been with us for a few years said to me, “Mrs. Glass, this is the only time my classmates have experienced what it is like to be me.”

His comment had a huge impact on me then – and still does. This young man seemed an integral part of the class – and was, in many ways. But his experiences, especially outside of school, were markedly different from most of his classmates’ and teachers’.

In the wake of the murder of Renee Good, as White residents of Minneapolis react with understandable fear, we should all be reminded that those feelings and cautions are ones that People of Color experience every day.

Parents can be a challenge for teachers. They can also be our best supporters. There are times when simply meeting with a parent – even more so, a couple – puts everything into perspective immediately. Hearing parents talk about their children is immensely informative. Not necessarily the what, but the how.

I do recall one mother who could drive me a bit crazy, as could her daughter. Quite likely, insecurity was her driving force, though the personalities for both came across as domineering.  I was surprised therefore, when this same mother gave me two of my favorite questions. We were talking about bullying and teasing and her daughter’s inclination to say, “I was just kidding.” This mother shared that her reaction to that response was always, “Well, who is it funny for?” Right to the heart of the matter, and a consideration that even fairly young children can appreciate.

The same mother also offered a wonderful defense for any child – or adult, for that matter – who is being teased or criticized for something. I learned from this mom to advise children who were teased for something out of their control like height, weight, accent, or other meaningless focus, to respond with, “Is that a problem for you?” Bullies have no idea how to deal with that.

The task of teaching children, whatever their ages, is ongoing. Whether we are parents, classroom teachers, or other adults in their lives, the challenge of helping them learn to be responsible and considerate citizens and friends is constant. Particularly in a time when adults are too often pitted against each other politically, and social media underscores division and allows anonymity, we can all be reminded of helpful responses. “Who is it funny for/” and “Is that a problem for you” work for any age.

My favorite Christmas tree ornament may be a blown glass pink pig of questionable beauty. In fact, original said pig took a dive and smashed on the floor several years ago. In its place now hang a laminated photo of the original and two much prettier glass facsimiles. All three were lovingly and thoughtfully presented to me by friends after I posted on social media the demise of my first pig.

My guess is that part of the joy for all with holiday decorations are the memories we unbox each year. Teachers have an extra stash of connections — the gifts that we have been given by students over the years. I confess that, in many cases, I can no longer remember who presented me with many of the ornaments that I faithfully hang each year. Some include names and dates; many don’t. Each is a treasure. Especially the handcrafted ones. The ones that would never sell in a store but represent care and love and distinct creativity.The ones that continue to reflect the joy and excitement of the little faces who made and presented them.

Teddy Fonseca gave me that pink pig for Christmas in 1975 at Colorado Academy. Teddy was a chubby kid with wonderful black curls and a passion for lions. Teddy had trouble saying the letter “F,” which he substituted with “T.” Frequently, he was chosen to feed the fish in our kindergarten classroom. First, he would practice his “F” by saying ” FFFeed the FFFish.” Then he would “FFTeed the FFTish…” Retrospectively, I realize he may well have been playing with all of us. Teddy died as a young man. He lives every Christmas in our home.

Billy Stone was one of my 6th grade students. Billy was easy: reliable, relatable, dependable, humorous, loyal. Not the “best” student in stereotypical terms, but certainly one who made my life and the classroom easier. At his middle school, he had trouble in math and a teacher who required a “Sacred Answer Column.” Billy’s father asked me to tutor his son, which was actually a pleasure. Too often, kids leave elementary and middle school and don’t stay in touch with their teachers. For Christmas that year, Billy gave me a wonderful little pottery house that lights up. His father said he hunted a long time until he was satisfied it was the right give. It was. It is. Our decorations are not complete until the “Billy House” is in place. I have lost touch with Bill Stone, but I think of him with love and appreciation every December.

Teachers work hard. Harder than anyone who has not created and maintained a classroom can possibly imagine. Many cultures around the world recognize and appreciate the importance and dedication of educators. Sadly, the US is not one of them, in general. But kids know. They know when they are seen and appreciated. They know when they are respected and understood. They know when a teacher provides a safe haven on a daily basis. Whether school is easy or a challenge, they know. To all of you out there unearthing your own Teddy and Billy memories, I salute you and share with you the unique delight that comes in the form of a pink pig or a pottery house from a kiddo you loved and still hold dear.

Those of us who teach and/or parent recognize the value of occasionally surprising the youngsters in our charge with hidden talents. Anyone over the age of about thirty is considered old. Keeping youngsters (and ourselves) on our toes is a good thing.

Almost thirty years ago, I started a new job at Columbus Academy in Gahanna, Ohio, as Middle School Head. The school had been all boys until a handful of years earlier and still maintained a fairly macho attitude. I was the first female to hold the Middle School Division Head title and responsibilities, and my immediate predecessors had not been good fits for the job. I suspected the 5^th-8^th grade students weren’t expecting much from me. I knew it was important to make the right first impression.

Regular assemblies were held in the school’s theater. 8^th graders sat front and center, with 7^th behind them and 5^th and 6^th classes off to the sides. 8^th grade boys, as is often their wont, claimed the front row seats and demonstrated their social position by slouching in very male fashion. They were not disrespectful, but they made a statement with their posture. Asking or telling them to sit up straight was not going to have any real impact.

I elected to introduce myself by bringing a backpack on stage and informing the student body that I wanted to share some items that would tell them more about me. One at a time, I produced a picture of my family (husband and two grown daughters) who were not in Ohio, a laptop (technology fairly new at that time), a pair of Levi’s (we were a uniform school, which did not allow blue jeans for either students or adults). My audience was attentive, but the front row still slouched.

Then I suggested that there are things about each and all of us that are surprises. Things that we can’t surmise by looking at each other. For instance, as a middle-aged woman clothed neatly in a suit and heels, how could they possibly know that I was raised on a ranch in Wyoming? Whereupon, I pulled a bullwhip from my backpack. The front row sat up straight, immediately.

Very likely, in today’s environment, it would not be advisable to crack a bullwhip in front of 270 middle school kiddos and their teachers. I never repeated the act in schools that followed.  In 1997, I could get away with it – much to the delight of those students. A few days later, a group of 8^th grade boys walked by the outside window of my office. As I glanced up, Ethan Robertson looked in and waved at me. Connections made.

Last week, I discovered that bullwhip. I am now seventy-seven.  I wondered if I could still crack it. The answer is yes. Sometimes we even surprise ourselves.

I was never going to be a teacher. My father was a teacher. I knew at an early age what was involved in being a good teacher. Plus, as already noted, my father was a teacher… July 1, 2018 marked my retirement from 46 years as an educator: teacher, administrator, consultant. I could not have asked for a better, more fulfilling career. While I am happy to be retired, every year as the school year begins around the country, I am reminded of Dad’s commitment to create The Best Year yet. This year I am inspired to share some thoughts that might help current teachers accomplish just that.

Our culture does not, as a whole, respect or appreciate teachers as they deserve, and, frankly, that ignorance plays out in ways that too many people never stop to consider. I vividly recall a conversation with an international demographer whom I was to introduce at a major conference. When I wondered aloud what the impact on prison populations might be if all children in the United States (and their parents) had access to early childhood education, the thought had never occurred to him. To his credit, he responded with thoughtful surprise. But this man, who had studied national demographic trends for several decades, had never even considered an educational perspective.

Good teachers impact the lives of thousands of children over time. They make a difference in the ways young people learn to look at others and themselves. They teach children to think and communicate thoughtfully and critically, how to discern news that is fake from that which is real. Good teachers consistently and supportively insist that students be their best selves. They recognize and celebrate the uniqueness of each child and work extremely hard to develop strengths and interests and ameliorate weaknesses. Classrooms are microcosms of the societies around them. They should stress personal and group responsibility.

Teachers who create those positive, interactive environments benefit their charges at the moment and far into the future. I am constantly amazed when students I taught long ago share the impact that some experience had on them. Sometimes it was a specific lesson plan. Much more often, their memories center on bigger, ongoing conversations. They recall when a classmate’s father died unexpectedly and how we talked about it as a class, while their own parents didn’t know what to say. Neither did I, frankly, but when kids ask, teachers must respond. Former students refer to simulation exercises during which they were exposed to exclusion and its impact on everyone in the class. They laughingly remember learning how to diagram sentences, wondering how such drudgery (or delight, as some of them experienced it) would ever help them in life – then discovering the huge advantage they had when learning a foreign language or that their English grammar and writing skills were so much more advanced than their peers’ who had no clue about a participial phrase.

My classroom was my work, my playground, my joy, my challenge, my fulfillment. Hundreds of thousands of teachers around the country are assiduously planning for the school year ahead and the children for whom they will deeply care. The most significant way to help them is to give them our trust, support, and gratitude.

Mr. Taggart

Among the many excellent teachers that I had throughout my education, Michael Taggart is on the varsity team.  Starting with 7^th grade history, Mr. Taggart taught a variety of classes and also coached our softball team for several seasons. In addition, in the context of President John F. Kennedy’s national fitness program, he was assigned oversight of the 7^th -9^th grade daily girls’ calisthenics. 

Calisthenics occurred every day during morning break – that sacred time when students were served milk and graham crackers and had probably twenty minutes to socialize. Same for teachers. No fool he, Mr. Taggart recognized that taking attendance and directing calisthenics would take twice as long as he wanted to give up for himself or for us. Accordingly, he assigned me to take attendance. He knew me to be a conscientious student and a very involved athlete. He picked me because of those factors and because I was “svelte.”  I looked it up. It meant slender – though now I read that it also suggests elegance, something I was decidedly not at thirteen. I took  daily attendance and forged Mr. T’s initials, with his instruction and permission.

I suppose such an arrangement would not be possible now. First, to suggest anything at all about a girl’s physique would be considered harassment. It wasn’t at that point; Mr. Taggart was merely recognizing that I got plenty of exercise ever day. Second, teaching a youngster to forge your  signature  is not generally advisable. He knew me well, however, which is really the point. I wouldn’t dream of abusing the privilege.

Mr. Taggart was the teacher who, in 9^th grade, had to tell us that President Kennedy had been shot and killed. Many years later, I recalled that class. He said it was among the most difficult of his entire career. He was deeply aware of the responsibility of finding the right words. Such a weight never occurred to us students at the time. What was critical was that someone whom we trusted spoke to us honestly and respectfully. Things that happen in the greater world are inextricably intertwined with what students remember about their teachers and their education. It’s okay to be at a loss for words. It’s not okay to share political opinions.

Final Mr. Taggart story. At a time when many schools did not have girls’ sports teams, when Title IX was not yet on the horizon, Mr. Taggart insisted that we young women had opportunities equal to our male classmates’. He expected us to practice, play hard, support each other, and demonstrate good sportsmanship. I suspect we won more than we lost, but I don’t really remember. He gave us life skills.

Interestingly, while my best friend at the time liked Mr. Townsend, I was surprised to hear, many years later, that he wasn’t a particular favorite of hers. Reminder that each of our students looks for and responds to  different qualities in us.