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.