Imagination + Inspiration = Impact

Oh, I miss posting on this blog.  And I am touched that people have noticed that I’ve been absent and that they even want to know why.  Well, here it is.   I am on the home stretch as a candidate for National Board Certification.  That means I am writing ALL of the time, but I am not writing here.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Why do you need it?”

“Why would you want that?”

“Why would you risk failing something, when you don’t have to?”

These questions are really all the same and there is really only one answer.  I love this profession.  And I embrace the idea of teacher driven professional standards.  To prove that, I am seeking certification.  The more I write about teaching, the more I learn.  This kind of qualitative  research (where questions lead to reflective inquiry) is part of instructional accountability in the classroom.

I am seeing more and more that institutional accountability is more quantitative (looking for numbers to back up and enforce policy) than qualitative.  These parallel lines of accountability don’t intersect, because parallel lines never do. That’s math.

The assumption in the policy world right now is that data is proof. But data from arbitrary measures in a system of accountability with ever moving goal posts and ever changing variables will never prove anything.    It is hard to prove  learning and transformation in a classroom with numbers.  Think about transformation and deep learning in your own life.  It there a mathematical formula for it?  The proof is more likely in your life choices and contributions to the world around you. Maybe that transformation began in classroom with an accomplished teacher (shout out to Mr. Blackwell and Mrs. Vawter).

Good teachers know how important inspiration and imagination are to the literate and successful life.   They are measured by  hard work, steadfastness, and compassion.  And  joy, relationship, imagination, inspiration, community, and collaboration.  These can’t be mandated or prohibited or codified or data-fied.  They blaze success in the lives of real teachers, with real children, in real communities.

I am in this to win.  Not just the National Board process, but teaching.  Education.  I am suspicious of “policy” as a parallel track.  It seems like a salaried arm chair sport. How can we merge institutional and instructional accountability to produce real impact? I think it begins with inspiration and imagination.

Morning Meeting and Mali

“Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”   Rilke

Morning Meeting is a simple and powerful routine for building community, trust, and respect in the classroom.  Every morning, sometime around 9:15, I put on piano music played by Jim Bennett, a friend and local musician. The tune is “Morning has Broken.”  The music is a lovely and wordless signal for the children to put away their “Morning Start-Up” work and come to the rug.

Once gathered, we make sure that no one is left out of the circle and begin the greeting.  One by one, we look into the eyes of the person sitting on our right and reach out our right hand in greeting.  Other than the chain of one child saying Good Morning to another, the only sound in the room is the music.  When the greeting is done, the music is turned off.  In the silence that follows, I ask a question– and it is not a question with one right answer.  The children go around the circle to answer or pass or agree or disagree with someone who has already spoken or elaborate upon a previous answer.  I often take notes as they speak.  When it comes back to me, I try to synthesize what I’ve heard and they let me know if I am on the right track.

Not all of Morning Meeting is serious.  We do silly stretches or sing or play quick games that might strengthen word sense and vocabulary and math skills.  There is often a book.  A story.  Pictures to look at.  A mini-lesson.  Sunlight pours through the big windows of our corner classroom and spills through the laughter in the air.   My children love Morning Meeting, and if for some reason we don’t have it, they are the first to say that the day doesn’t feel right.

The day feels better when we greet each other.  And honor each other.  The day feels better when we begin with a question rather than a bunch of right and wrong answers.  Early in our study of Mali (a state requirement), I asked a question and I did not fully know the answer: “Should teachers teach their children about suffering?” Some said yes and some said no and many were not sure.  I was among the “not sure,” but I was worried about “Disney-fying” Mali by ignoring its current problems.

We forged ahead and talked about drought, famine, struggle, violence, and loss.   We talked about the vulnerability of orphaned children.  We were cautious.  Careful.  Answers took a backseat and now we were looking for solutions. Two things were clear: my children needed to be assured that they were safe and they needed to feel like they could do something to help.  It is very hard to feel safe if you feel helpless. It was time to find a way to take action.

We were looking for an organization to support in some small way, but this was difficult as Mali’s government was coming apart.  I wrote UNICEF in Mali and did not receive a reply. I tried the Peace Corps, too; the Peace Corps volunteers had been evacuated. Reina’s mom helped us find an organization. We researched it online.  It was important for us to find an organization that helped children and enabled boys and girls get an education.   We were happy to find the Zorokoro Project at  www.acfacorp.org. We decided to have a bake sale to support this organization before the holiday PTA meeting. The director of the ACFA, Kadiatou Sidibe, sent each child a pamphlet about the organization.  Sarah Lisk, a former student of mine who volunteers once a week, helped the children make a banner for the bake sale. The parents baked and baked and baked. Molly’s parents donated fair trade coffee from Africa for us to bag and sell.

The children worked hard. The day of the sale they scooped and measured and bagged and weighed coffee. They labeled packs of cookies and tied packages with curling ribbon.   They created brochures to be handed out at the bake sale with their key talking points.  Brook’s mother, sister, and grandmother came to help package and price baked goods after school (his grandmother also organized many of her friends as bakers!).   My third grade colleagues pitched in: Pat Kite made Blondies and Danielle Adkins helped organize baked goods.

Miranda and Synia stayed after school to help.  Children arrived early and positioned themselves for their jobs.  Some stood at the entrances with brochures about the Mali project; they know the power of greeting and eye contact and personal connection; they learn it in Morning Meeting everyday.  Others stood behind the table and waited.  They didn’t have to wait long.  James’ mother helped count money.  Ainsley’s dad was there with a “square” for his Ipad so we could take credit cards. Some parents made generous donations.

These third graders were tireless; they were inspiring; and they were effective. Children love competence, agency, completion, and success. It is part of the human engine to want to make a difference.  The children of Room 204 wanted to help the children of Mali, and they did.  Money continued to trickle in.  The total amount came to $668. 08.  With  a matching grant from the Segal Family Foundation, our class raised $1,336.16.

Later that week, I invited our question back into Morning Meeting.

“Should teachers teach their children about suffering?”

“Yes,” they said, one after another around the circle.

They elaborated:

“If you do, explain it carefully—know that sensitive kids will worry.”

“Be cautious about what you are teaching.”

“If you do, be sure you can teach how to help.  It makes sense then.”

“Don’t study suffering if you can’t take action.”

“Children will feel bad if they can’t help.  Carefully spread it out over time.”

“Teach gently.”

“Know that it is okay for helping to be fun.”

“Learning about the world is learning about the world. Sometimes that means learning about suffering.”

“Make sure you have reason to do it, otherwise it doesn’t make sense.”

I asked a question that we lived out together.  And, once again, my children taught me the answer.

Opening Doors

“The geranium on the windowsill died but teacher you went right on…..”
Albert Callum

The Empire of Mali is a third grade Standard of Learning: Virginia Social Studies 3.2. Mali has a magnificent past.  When the light of learning in Europe dimmed for a time in the Middle Ages, it was burning more brightly than ever in Mali.  The university in Timbuktu provided safe haven for the Latin and Greek texts of fallen Rome. Griots sang epic poetic songs of history and tradition.

Over the years I have developed an integrated unit about Mali that is rich in folktales, history, geography, art, and music.  Many of our American traditions, like the banjo, can be traced back to this part of West Africa.

I teach about Mali every year, but this year it has been hard. Mali is in the headlines.  Mornings begin with a cup of coffee and horrific stories of drought, violence, famine, and fear.  As my children dance to the traditional music of Mali, I think back to an article in the morning’s paper: Mali’s musicians have been silenced and are fleeing for their lives.

As we talk about Griots and their traditional tales of triumph, I can’t help but think of the newly orphaned children whose life stories have been interrupted by loss.  Can I, should I, teach the glorious past of Mali, in the shadow of the current suffering of its people–Without even mentioning it?

How do I open my students’ eyes to the suffering in Mali, and at the same time protect their tender hearts and shield their joy in time of wonder?  My steps on the path of truth-telling must be gentle steps. I lead with the story of The Magic Gourd by Baba Wague Diakite.  The story opens with Brother Rabbit (Dogo Zan) looking for food in a time of drought.  As he searches, he sings a song of hope.  Luck does come his way, but he takes only what he needs and shares it with many.

We’ve learned that drought leads to famine; famine leads to hunger; hunger often leads to a scramble for power; a scramble for power often leads to violence; and violence leads to loss.

When confronted with suffering, children need to know that they are safe.   And then they need to know that they can help.   I have assured them that they are safe and that we can help.  I suggested a bake sale to support a project that would help children in Mali.  They loved the idea and we got right to work.

On Tuesday, just before the P.T.A. meeting, we will have a bake sale to support the Zorkoro Project in Mali. This is a project to expand an orphanage that has a sustainable farm.  You can read more about this project (and even donate) at www.acfacorp.org.

I began this journey with a folk tale.  Once again, a story is our doorway to truth.  And truth is a doorway to change.

Is Less More?

October.    September is gone, proving once again that even a month lived intentionally, day-by-day and hour by hour, will fly by. September is a methodical month.  At the beginning of September, I tell my third graders they don’t have to worry about doing things the wrong way, because I will teach them the right way. September is all about the right way:  Eye contact. Accountable talk.  Intentional chatter. Greeting one another.  Moving through the space respectfully. Showing what you know when you know it and knowing when you don’t.  Thinking deeply.  Breathing deeply. Finding more than one right answer.  Asking better questions.  Widening the circle.  Going the extra mile with a smile.  Stepping forward to help.  Keeping your desk as an invitation to learning. Taking responsibility.  Taking risks.

We learn to read and write “long and strong.” We learn that we will mistakes and we can make them right.   We learn to be mindful of feelings—those of others and our own.  We learn that feelings are not right or wrong… they just are. We learn that sadness fades and that joy waits to surprise us when we least expect it. We see it in literature. We see it in life.

Teachers have answers and live questions.  On Friday I invited my students to live a question with me: How can we make homework better?

My third graders could not have seen the question coming, but they seemed ready for it.  The opinions were strong, but varied, and the results inconclusive.   There was one common thread: Less.  They said less homework would be better homework.  I found myself nodding my head. Their ideas were turning the right way into a better way.

Over the years I’ve worked to create homework that is meaningfully aligned with the classroom.  I’ve been proud of my homework.  It integrates the curriculum and is a springboard for critical thinking. I’ve tweaked it; reworked it; revamped it; revised it. My quest has been to make homework more meaningful.  I think I’ve just made it more.  More may be too much.

The class quickly created a survey.  The children ranked the activities they liked and circled the one they hated the most.

This turned out to be a confusing process—but one thing was clear.  Almost everyone likes the math game.   This doesn’t surprise me. It is good practice, but I also know it is not really about the math. Most children played the game with their parents.  And they love that.

I’m cutting homework back this week.  The essentials are there: a math game, a reading log, vocabulary and spelling, and a little writing.  This week we are living the question.  Together we’ll find the answer.   When it comes to homework, it may be that my third graders are teaching the teacher the right way.

Curious about the new homework?  Click here: Mrs. Campbell’s Homework

I’m Glad You Are Here

They were my first class.  They were first graders and they taught me to notice missing teeth and new shoes.  I remember my first day as their teacher.  I hoped that my students would welcome me, and I hoped that their parents would think that I was grown-up enough to teach their children. I was twenty-one.

It didn’t take me long to realize that it was my job to welcome my students–not their job to welcome me–and my job to assure parents, not the other way around.  Over the years the “first day welcome” has become more and more intentional.  First, it crept beyond the first weeks of September and then it leapt into October.   Now welcome is a way of life in Room 204.

I knew the power of welcome before I learned of the research that backed it up.  The research says that children need to belong, feel safe, and know joy to learn.   This can only happen in a place where children are seen, heard, and invited in.   I knew it before I learned it–that’s  how intuition works. Intuition alone doesn’t trump a textbook or a pacing chart or a lesson plan, but research can.

For three summers I have participated in either the Reading or Writing Institute at Columbia Teachers College with Lucy Calkins.  Lucy’s research puts words to what I know is true.  I know making sure every child has agency as a reader and writer is key to his or her autonomy as a learner and ultimate success as student.   I know it starts with an invitation:  “I have a book that is just right for you.”

My conversations with children work in a teeter totter balance of “Oh, look what you can already do!” with “Get ready, today I’m going to teach you something new.”

We are building a community where everybody matters. We are building a common canon of folk tales and stories from many cultures, and with it, a language of literary allusion. We are building trust, so that we can take risks without risking shame. We are building a sense of common purpose in a world that is bigger than ourselves. We are building stamina as readers, writers, and problem solvers.  We are building an academic vocabulary that can deepen our understanding of all that we learn. And we don’t have time to waste.

We are learning to open our arms wide to the world.  It all starts in a doorway with an outstretched hand and it grows within a circle of trust. Teaching is a radical act of hospitality. “Welcome.” I smile and I tell the truth:  “I am glad you are here.”

Guarding Fragility

Whether we are conscious of it or not, we think and speak in metaphor.  Metaphor is the picture language that lays track from heart to mind and back. Metaphor stirs the imagination and helps us mix what we learn with what we know.  Sometimes metaphor sneaks up from behind, “Boo! You didn’t find me, I found you!”  It grabs us and won’t let us go.

In February our third grade class started watching the Richmond Times-Dispatch “eagle cam.”   We would check in and see how the parents, Virginia and James, were faring.  We loved to watch the way they took turns sitting on the nest.  We were thrilled to get a glimpse of the eggs during the “shift changes.”  We watched them repair the nest with care.  Twig by twig. We were mesmerized by the “real time” miracle that could not and would not be rushed.

At the end of February it snowed. Virginia, the mother eagle, weathered the storm and never left her eggs.  Day and night she quietly sat guarding the fragile potential–her life’s work.  In our third grade community, we began to feel like we were sitting on the nest.  In March we watched the eggs hatch.  We watched the mother and father feed their chicks.  We held our breath when they were left alone and cheered when an intruder was chased away.

As spring came, we found more nests.  Osprey nests. Robin nests.  Cardinal nests.  One day, as we walked, we found a broken blue egg with a yolky interior: a sad reminder that miracle and fragility walk hand in hand.

In May, the eaglets practiced and practiced and practiced flapping their wings.  They took all the time they needed. One needed more than the other… and it wasn’t the one we would have predicted.   Last week, when they were ready, they flew– first one then the other.

It is June.  In the midst of celebrating college and high school graduations and weddings of former students of Room 204, I am now bracing myself to say good-bye to this group of third graders. They’ve been talking about how happy and sad they are at the same time. I tell them those are the feelings of getting ready to leave. They are flapping their wings. When they leave they will soar. They are ready.  Off they’ll go.  I will stay.

There are storms that threaten the nest.  “Reform” is a storm that threatens the infrastructure that was begun by the true school reformers a hundred years ago. John Dewey was passionate about public schools as centers for experiential learning, shared inquiry, and informed citizenry.  Could he have foreseen the day when an informed citizenry would say no to extra money for schools? People often forget that the “tough on schools” almost always translates to  “tough on teachers and children.”   Sadly, I am not surprised that citizens would overlook a cut in pay and benefits to teachers.  I am surprised, however, that people are okay with increased class size.   I had a brief conversation with Arne Duncan (Secretary of Education) earlier this year.  I implored him to consider the importance of class size.  He responded that good teachers are more important than class size.

Here is the truth: every child deserves a good teacher AND a reasonable class size that supports and encourages his or her class participation. We can teach our children to flap their wings, but conditions have to be just right for them to fly.  Public education is a precious part of our nation’s infrastructure. It has been built twig by twig and is in constant need of repair, refining, revision, and yes, reform. True reform, like education, is a real-time miracle that cannot be rushed.   It isn’t that we’ve gotten it wrong.  It is that we are still working on getting it right. Miracle and fragility walk hand in hand.   Good teachers (and there are plenty) guard the fragility and bet on the miracle.

This is the week that I celebrate the 19 miracles before me, my students.  On Friday I will say good-bye to each of them.  I have loved being their teacher and I will miss each of them.  Experience has taught me this:  I will also love watching them soar.

Words Matter

My class and I are coming to the end of Charlotte’s Web. O Charlotte.  You.  You’re the one. You are the greatest heroine in Children’s Literature.

I can make such a bold statement with veracity (she would approve of that word), because I’ve shared this book (and hundreds of others) with many classes over the last thirty years.  I’ve read Charlotte’s Web to first graders.  I’ve read it to second graders.  I’ve read it to third graders. I know her well. This wise book seems most at home in the third grade. E.B. White has a reverence for eight year olds. The book opens with Fern Arable’s voice, “Where is Papa going with that ax?”  Fern is eight.  And she is bold enough to take up for the runt of a litter of pigs with her words.

We sit in a circle. Each child in my class holds a copy of Charlotte’s Web.  We turn the book into a kind of Radio Theater: different children take turns being narrator, while others read the different parts.  We switch it up as we move from chapter to chapter or, sometimes, from page to page.  I always take the part of Charlotte.  Charlotte’s love of vocabulary makes her part a little more difficult to read, but that isn’t the only reason I take her part … I read Charlotte to make sure her strength and beauty and encouraging words wash over my students.

Charlotte understands that everyone has a gift and a role in the balance and beauty of community.  And that everyone desires and is capable of meaningful work. Even Templeton, the disparaged rat, is put to work for Charlotte’s cause.  He ends up with a very important job:  he uses his much maligned scavenger skill to find the right words—words that are perfect enough to save a life.  Charlotte reminds him that the right word will help others see Wilbur’s nobler qualities.  Wilbur matters. Templeton matters.  Words matter.

Words matter in the classroom, too. Our words help children see where they are going—what they can do instead of what they can’t do.  Our words help children see and celebrate their nobler qualities.

I have been thinking about this important business of words.  What, I wondered, do my students hear when I speak?  What words stick in their heads?  What do they think that I say over and over again?  This led to an idea for a class book and a quick review of quotation marks.   I handed each child an index card.  In five minutes our book was done.

“Be kind, fair, and responsible, says Mrs. Campbell.

“Put like with like,” said Mrs. Campbell.

“Getting started is half the battle,” said Mrs. Campbell.

“If you want to get done, get started,” said Mrs. Campbell.

“Look at the world with the eyes of a writer,” said Mrs. Campbell.

“Make your desk an invitation to learning,” said Mrs. Campbell

“I have 180 days to teach you for life,” exclaimed Mrs. Campbell.

Oh, there were others—those preachy nagging reminders make their way into my teacher-speak, too.   There were phrases about keeping quiet in the hallways and not leaning on the bookcases.

“I only have 180 days to teach you for life,” said Mrs. Campbell.

Peter Johnston in his amazing book, Choice Words, reminds us that our choice of words has the power to  increase children’s agency as readers, writers, and citizens. Our choice of words has the power to  increase a child’s sense of belonging.  Our choice of words has the power to help a child see who they are.  And Charlotte knew that our choice of words can save a life.

We are coming to the end of Charlotte’s Web.  I hear the wren’s song in the roses as she sings in the month of May.  I know what it means.  In the time we have left, I will choose my words carefully. Words matter.