Differentiate Instruction, But Standardize the Testing

I am a teacher.

Teaching isn't just what I do, it's who I am.

I fought it for a long time. My dad said, "You should be a teacher." I rolled my eyes and changed the subject.

My teachers said, "You should be a teacher." I laughed and said Thank you, but no. I'll be a writer instead.

But the evidence piled up. Long childhood hours spent brandishing a piece of chalk in front of a captive audience of teddy bears, Barbie dolls, a reluctant brother. The managers in the department store in which I worked to put myself through college sending new hires directly to me so I could teach them what to do. The feeling of an essential element missing when that first September rolled around after college, and there was no school expecting me to be there bright and early on Tuesday morning.

I am a teacher.

A good one, I think. I understand that recording a fabulous lesson to play over and over to thousands of kids misses the point- that essential human energy that can fill a room with life necessary for real learning, the kind that takes root one day and grows vines every day after. Teaching is a unique science that cannot be done well without art. It's a bipolar life- full of frustration, laughter, sorrow, joy, irritation, fulfillment, and boredom. Often all in the same day.

But my classroom is my home, and I'm never more at peace than in those moments when a student who proclaims to hate reading admits that he "kinda" liked the book I suggested. Or a teenage girl, seething with all the angst her species is known for, apologizes for rolling her eyes at me four times yesterday and admits my class is her favorite part of her day. Teaching kids to love words, language, books is simply my calling.

Tomorrow, though, I will open my classroom door, make sure all desks are in even rows far enough apart that wandering eyes can find no answers, and proctor another standardized test. This is one of five such tests my students are required to take this year to measure their reading progress. The state of Minnesota could probably save all this time and trouble and ask me instead- I can tell you who is reading at grade level, who is so far behind we both fear her ability to catch up has passed her by, and who is so far ahead he could enroll in college and do just fine. But my opinion doesn't count- I guess it doesn't qualify as "data." Instead results will be tabulated, reports printed, and at some point in the not-so-distant future my students will be handed another envelope in which many of them learn that, yet again, Minnesota has labeled them failures. Maybe they'll have labeled me a failure too.

Tomorrow I'll have lost another day. A day we could have read an engaging poem and discussed what life events led to the author's cynical view of love. A day we could have written about the theme of the apocalypse novel we just read, and how it applies to their own lives. A day we could have laughed, talked, analyzed, predicted, read something.

Instead, 25 earnest faces will greet me at 8:30. (No more than 25, because state bureaucrats, in their infinite wisdom, have deemed that the maximum number for which teachers can adequately proctor the test. Apparently it's acceptable for me to pack 35-40 in my classroom when I actually attempt to teach them something, but let's hold the line at 25 for testing.) I'll hand out sharpened #2 pencils, read out loud the scripted directions, then watch as they lose another day of learning.

Happy Father's Day, Dad!

When I was in elementary school one of my classmates' favorite arguments was, "My dad can (insert skill here) better than your dad!" The arguments would get quite heated, and every kid insisted that his dad was the best at everything.

Me? I'd just smile and continue with what I was doing. I pitied those clueless kids, really. I knew without a doubt that my dad could run circles around their dads in every possible way. 

Fixing stuff? Check.

Playing with me and my brothers? Check check.

Endless patience? Check check check.

They had no idea that my dad was really the best one ever, but I didn't want to ruin their innocence by enlightening them.

I was right too.

It took me many years to recognize that the real gifts my dad gave me had nothing to do with shooting hoops on the driveway, early Saturday morning rides to catch the bus to speech meets, or trips to Dairy Queen as we hung over the cab of the truck with wind whipping our hair into tangles. They had nothing to do with the goodnight kisses, playing home run derby in the front yard, or picking me up from kindergarten on the snowmobile (which made me a five year old rock star to my classmates).

The real gifts- lessons, really- were about responsibility and tenacity. Working hard to support a young family no matter what it took. I'll never forget attending his commencement services as a ten year old child, having watched him achieve his dream of becoming a college graduate (first in the family!) while working full-time and raising three kids.

He taught me that showing up for the important events matters. Weddings, funerals, banquets, graduations. People remember who was there for them during the most precious of life moments, and it means something to them when friends and family put aside their own lives to celebrate and mourn with them.

He taught me that real men respect women and would never dream of raising a hand to them. Real men don't call women names or belittle them or make them feel weak or less than. Real men celebrate the strength and good judgment of the women in their lives. When choosing my own husband and father for my children I never considered settling for anything less, and my daughters continue to reap the reward of his example.

He taught me to choose kindness. To have patience (I'm still working on this one). To recognize that even the smallest of lives have value. He taught me that life is hard and rarely fair, but that there are more good days than bad and that is something to be celebrated.  

He taught me that who I am is a choice. The truth is that my dad became the father he is without a good example of his own to emulate. He chose the kind of man and father he wanted to be, when it would have been so easy to instead be bitter, angry, and selfish. The legacy of that choice is profound, appreciated, and generational. 

Looking back on my life, I can't think of a single time my dad has let me down, or said no when I needed him to say yes. My hope is that one day my own children will look back and view me through the same lens, because to me that would be the ultimate measure of achievement and success.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you.

Family and Loss

Each one of our family tragedies ends with a variation on the same theme.

"We should do this more often."

"We should get together for happier events."

"We should plan a family reunion."

"I wish we would have done this when grandma/grandpa/dad/cousin were alive to enjoy it."

We should. But we never did. Decades of secrets, simmering resentments, real and imagined slights, and suspicions of favoritism  all conspire to keep extended family members apart except for the saddest of occasions when attendance is obligatory. We share DNA, a last name and a history, but little more. Somehow, though, for those  brief hours amidst the flower arrangements, dollar buns, and potato salad, we recognize the frailty of this fleeting life, and vow to move past the drama and dysfunction that has defined us for many years.

Tomorrow we'll meet again to celebrate the life and mourn the loss of a man gone too soon. We'll hug and we'll forgive. We'll share memories and we'll tell stories and we'll promise- Promise!- this time will be different. And in a month or a year or a decade when the time comes to say goodbye to another one of us, we'll do it again.

Abundance

November has brought an avalanche of thankful posts to my newsfeed. From an abundance of food, to good health and a loving family, many are writing their blessings on the walls of social media to share with the world. I gave it a try, but didn't quite find it comfortable to give thanks in such a public fashion. 

Here is the truth: I feel guilty for the abundance in my life.

I am keenly aware that while I followed the rules- graduated from high school and then college, got married and had babies, in that order- I didn't do it by myself. Some might argue my husband and I have earned our abundance by working hard and making choices. That's true, to some degree, of course. But many factors beyond our control led to life where we have enough food in the refrigerator and a warm roof over our heads. 

I was born to a stable family. My parents have been married for over 40 years. They modeled tenacity, hard work, and honoring commitments, and I absorbed the lessons of their example. 

Abundance.

My family wasn't wealthy, by any stretch of the imagination. I grew up in a mobile home and dreamed of living in a house without wheels. Yet my parents made their blue collar earnings stretch, and I never worried about filling my stomach or whether Santa would show up in time for Christmas. I had my own room and new clothes, and like many kids took it all for granted at the time.

Abundance.

I escaped abuse of any kind. I do not know what it is to fear for my physical or emotional safety, and I know experiencing those fears would have changed me in fundamental ways beyond the range of my imagination. 

Abundance.

My husband is a good man. He works hard, respects women, and takes his responsibilities seriously. He models what is a good man to our daughters, so that they will understand at the cellular level that they are worthy of respect, honor, and love. Marriage is not easy, but the good outweighs the bad, and we love each more after 15 years than we did on our wedding day. 

Abundance.

 

I am part of a community full of friends eager to support and help when needed. People who worry, people who care, people who can be depended upon to offer what they can with cheerful spirit.

 

Abundance.

My children were born bright, beautiful, and healthy. I do not have to expend resources searching for specialists, schools, or doctors who can help them have a future. I don't worry about them beyond the everyday worries that all mothers experience. 

 

Abundance.

My college degree allowed me to find a job that guarantees a solid income and good benefits. I do not have to choose between staying home with a sick child or losing a day's wages. I do not have to wonder if I'm sick enough to justify the price of a visit to the doctor. I can do what is best for me and my family without worrying if my job will be waiting when I return.

Abundance.

Don't misunderstand. I really am thankful for these great gifts  in my life. Countless people in the world are just as deserving, but life simply hasn't been as kind to them.  Any small twist of fate could have- would have- changed where my family is today. So I find myself in the odd position of feeling  both undeserving and hopeful that my luck will continue. Abundance.

You Are Not So Special

Like mothers everywhere, I am secretly convinced my children are just a little bit more than other children.  A little bit more smart. A little bit more beautiful. A little bit more likely to grow up to be president, or winner of a Pulitzer, or the world's best mother.

But this is what I tell them: You are not so special.

You are not so special that your wants trump the needs of everyone else.
Sometimes (often, in fact) you will experience disappointment and must accept it with grace and understanding. Your wish for a new bike or game or whatever will take a backseat to your sister's need for a new coat and boots, because you, my dear child, live in a world of finite resources. Accept it early and you can avoid a lifetime of looking over your neighbors' shoulders to see if they have more, because it won't matter. You'll have enough.

You are not so special that you are absolved of responsibility for helping make the world a better place.
You have been blessed with the tools you need to create a good life- a warm house and nourishing food,  a loving family, and a quality education. But let's be clear that you did nothing to earn those things. It was an accident of birth, just the same as those born into poverty, dysfunction, and hopelessness. Your birth privilege requires you to work toward helping provide for those born under lesser circumstances. Donating your money and volunteering your time are requirements for you to live with gratitude. Speaking of gratitude...

You are not so special that you can afford to forgo gratitude for complaints.
The world will disappoint you. People will let you down, and the movie reel of dreams that runs through your head will often look nothing like the reality that comes to pass. But choosing to focus on those disappointments and complain about your circumstances rather than recognize the tremendous gifts of love and opportunity that surround you is simply not an option if you want to live a life of joy.

You are not so special that you can ignore your talents and expect them to grow.
Every talent, every skill needs your time and attention to grow and develop. Whether your  heart is fullest when you play the guitar, or look at the stars, or paint a landscape, you must nurture that love to give it a chance to make your life rich. Ignoring what you love in favor of earning money may help you earn a living, but if it's at the expense of feeding your soul the price is too high. Practice, practice, and practice again to give your talent a chance to play a meaningful role in your life.

You are not so special that you are not responsible for your own actions, decisions, and behaviors.
Do not explain away poor behavior by telling me what someone else did to earn it. You have no control over another person's choices, but you can control your own reactions and responses. Bad behavior on the part of another will never, ever, excuse yours. So don't even try.

You are not so special that you can avoid apologizing when you should.
Since you are human, you'll make mistakes. You will be jealous and judgmental and mean and small-minded. You will be sarcastic and dramatic and emotional and defensive. You will lie and twist the truth and overreact. And it will all be okay- as long as you apologize. Mistakes are forgivable, but refusing to acknowledge your mistakes will make it very difficult for people to see past your human foibles to that unique combination of qualities that make you your fabulous self. So when warranted, take a deep breath, open your mouth, and say, "I'm sorry." Don't worry- it will get easier with practice.

You are not so special that excuses will be accepted in place of action.
Listen, I know. Sometimes you just.don't.want.to. There are moments when you'll have to drag yourself kicking and screaming into whatever action is required of you at that time. Do it anyway. The world is a pretty smart place, and whatever excuse you'll come up with to justify your inaction will not  be met with the response you hope for. Trust me on this.

You are not so special that you can choose anything other than integrity to shape your days and guide your choices.
Tough choices await you. Sometimes the easy choice is the wrong one, so learn to listen to your heart and conscience and always, always choose with integrity.

You are not so special that the world owes you anything except the opportunity to forge a path through determination, hard work, and effort.
You have already won the lottery of life. (Remember the warm house, nourishing food, and quality education we've already discussed?) It's up to you, and you alone, to use those winnings to shape your future. You've been provided with the building blocks you need to step onto the path,  but your own effort will determine the direction that path takes. Work hard with gratitude in your heart, and life will reward you.

You are not so special that you can avoid forgiveness.
People are imperfect. Forgive them anyway. Holding on to anger and hurt will poison you far more profoundly than it will punish them. The most important person you ever forgive will be yourself, because the best relationship you nurture is with the person who stares back in the mirror. Forgive your own mistakes and imperfections, find balance, seek out joy, and you will live a life of meaning and love.

Lincoln

Powerful movie. Developing tension for a story in which the ending is no secret must pose a difficult challenge, and yet I watched with hope, sorrow, and true anticipation. For 150 minutes I really believed Daniel Day Lewis was Abraham Lincoln.

One scene in particular moved me, although not in the way you might expect. When the House of Representatives requires information from the president, a note is hastily scrawled  on a scrap of paper and a man literally runs from Congress to the White House to deliver it. The response is conducted in the same manner, and it occurred to me how much drama has been lost the world in these days of instant communication. Those moments of waiting, anticipating, hoping, are largely lost to us in these days of text messages, emails, and impatience.

There are exceptions, of course. The images of our current president and his cabinet watching the screen during the raid that ended with the death of Osama bin Laden are riveting. How many of us watched over and over, fascinated by the sheer energy in that room, wondering what it might have felt like to have a front row seat to history? Perhaps it held the interest of the population precisely because there are so few of them now, when network news anchors break stories even before the individuals involved know exactly what is the story.

Don’t misunderstand- I love my iPhone as much as the next guy. But there is power in recognizing the losses to our culture- our humanity, even- when the drama and tension in our lives is erased with a push of a button.

See Lincoln. You won’t regret it.

 

Her Voice

*This article was published in the Fall 2012 edition of Her Voice magazine.

"How was your trip?" The most dreaded question I faced upon my return. What was the right answer?  Wonderful? Horrible? Emotional? Exhausting? Exhilarating?

Yes.

Years ago, in the midst of the emotional turmoil of adolescence, I read The Diary of a Young Girl, Anne Frank's iconic diary, and developed a deep lifelong interest in a topic that most people find depressing at best, horrifying at worst. Yet I marveled at the humanity of a world tragedy that seethed with death, life, sorrow, joy. At the time I had no way of knowing that my chosen profession- teaching- would provide me with the opportunity to share the story of the Holocaust with hundreds- even thousands- of future students.

The chance to spend three weeks immersed in Holocaust study was irresistible. The program is subsidized by the American Gathering of Jewish Holocaust Survivors and Their Descendants, an organization encouraging educators to teach the Holocaust from the perspective of Jewish resistance, remembrance, and artifact study. On a steamy July morning I kissed my family goodbye and boarded the first of many flights that would take me from the bustle of Washington D.C, across the sweeping deserts and cramped streets of Israel, through the quiet hamlets and solemn memorials of Germany and Poland.

I wanted quotes, anecdotes, statistics- the flashy little facts that make adolescents sit up, pay attention, and connect to something beyond their own world. Something that, to them, is ancient history.

Instead, I got heartbreak. Daily tears, sorrow, and disbelief.

For me, the Holocaust became a story of women. Entire museums are devoted to remembering the men who made the fateful decisions and placed the orders that resulted in murder on a mass scale.  History books tell the stories of the men who led their countries in the fight against Hitler's tyranny. But we are missing the names of so many of the women who faced choiceless choices, made impossible decisions, and lived and died under the most heartbreaking of circumstances.

My goal, my mission, is to give voice to the woman who stood on a train platform and, recognizing the source of the smoke that rose unceasingly toward the sky, pushed her son toward the other line- the one that would give him a chance to live even as her own story was coming to an end.

Or the woman who saved her meager food rations for her children, knowing that shortening her own life was the only way to offer them a chance to live for a few more days, months, years until this nightmare would end.

Or the woman who opened her home to another mother's child in the hopes that one small life could be saved. Could she have imagined the agony of that mother who buttoned her child into a warm coat, placed a suitcase in impossibly small hands, and kissed a cheek, quite possibly- probably- for the last time before sending her very own heart into an unknown world with nothing but hope to guide her agonizing decision?

Those women, each one a small voice echoing among the millions and millions for whom the Holocaust became a part of their story, deserve for their stories to be told and celebrated. In the words of Maya Angelou, "History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, however, if faced with courage, need not be lived again."

Now, decades later, many of the voices who lived to tell their stories are being lost to time.  Soon, the Holocaust will no longer exist in the memory of any man or woman alive. It is the fate, however, of mothers to remember. Who better than the givers of life and nurturers of body and spirit to celebrate the lives that were lost and the lives that were saved? To remember in quiet, singular ways and to remember in loud, public displays of grief, passion, despair. To understand that each woman and child had a voice that still calls out for solace and relief from a horror that is impossible to understand and impossible to reconcile with what we believe about human compassion.

During one of my last evenings in Jerusalem I strolled through a street filled with shops and restaurants that were just reopening after being closed for the Sabbath. Faintly, at first, I heard the strains of music, before it fairly bloomed into a joyful song as dozens of vibrant, happy teenagers literally sang their faith into the streets.  It was a joyous testament to the resilience of the human spirit.

I knew I would absorb an astounding amount of information and meet dedicated educators who would help me develop my skills in teaching this sensitive subject. I was supposed to become a better teacher, but I didn't know I would return a better wife, mother, daughter, friend, woman.