Many people think that teenagers are miscreants. Hormonal lunatics.  Unfocused blobs.  Overall pains in the tuchus.

And many people question the sanity of middle school teachers, for we actually choose to spend our days with these unfocused blobs. How can you possibly stand it, they ask?  How can you stand them?  I have been posed this question, or some variation of it, at least four trillion times in my fifteen years of teaching, mostly by the small talkers seated next to me on airplanes.

This is how I stand it.

Eighty-four teenagers passed over the threshold of room 309 for the first time twelve days ago, and since that morning, I have been feeling inspired and utterly hopeful.

What are you, crazy?

Maybe so.

But…

I have witnessed students crouching down to help each other with jammed lockers, volunteering to organize my already disorganized bookshelves, assisting classmates who are new or who have severe disabilities.

I have seen a young man return a $25 gift card that he found tucked inside of Shadow Divers, a book that he had borrowed from my classroom library.  This is not mine, he uttered.

I have watched students work through their lunch period, day after day, fiercely determined to stay ahead, to have a successful year.

I have read comments, one writer encouraging another writer, in our online discussion forums.

I have listened to their passion for the Beatles, for Batman, for the Twilight series, for swinging from the trapeze (yes, two of them are “swingers”).  I have listened to stories of Sundays spent volunteering to help abandoned animals.

I have learned of their battles against attention deficit disorder, of their mourning the loss of their far-too-young-to-die parents or siblings, their struggles to cope with acrimonious divorces, and their own physical trials against low birth weight, and diabetes.

I have read of their hopes to become stronger writers and more adept readers, and of their dreams to become veterinarians, first grade teachers, architects, lawyers, and professional sports players.

I have learned of their talents for horseback riding, for hockey, for violin, for sketching.

I have witnessed other “talents” too, for burping, for farting (bring on the Febreze), and for producing such explosive sneezes that they send an entire class erupting into laughter.  They are teenagers, after all.

I have laughed aloud, as they have shared stories of brothers keeping dead eels in the freezer, of stuffed animals (one named Mr. Woofums) protecting them in the darkness, and of cooking skills so unrefined that even the toast gets burnt.

And, speaking of cooking…

This is the five-star story.

“Ms. Baker, you should have seen the pot roast that I made last night.  It was fifteen pounds, and, Ms. Baker, it was amazing.  If I had a camera, I would have taken a picture of it to show it to you.  My daddy said that I should have invited you over to eat with us…”

This fourteen-year-old cooks daily feasts for her two older brothers and her diabetic father.  She plans the menus.  She heads to the supermarket.  She serves them. Oh, and whenever possible, she also accompanies Dad to dialysis treatments.

And yesterday she woke up at 4 a.m. to get started on that day’s homework.

“I don’t have a lot of free time,” she explains.

I do not know where her mother is, only that she is not around.

“You know, Ms. Baker, that’s really okay.  A lot of people I know don’t have  fathers in their lives, and I feel lucky that I have such an amazing one.”

If there is an ounce of self-pity in this fourteen-year-old’s heart, I have yet to see its face.

Last year, she read and read her way out of Reading Support class and, one day, she plans to attend Spelman College.

“Do you know where that is, Ms. Baker?”

Oh, yes, sweetie, I know exactly where that is.

And I will help you get there.

*****

Meanwhile, at home tonight, I whip out the frozen pizza, transfer it to the preheated oven, and announce to my own children that their feast will be ready in thirteen minutes.  Maybe tomorrow, kids, Mommy will make pot roast.  Huh, they say, what’s pot roast?

Never mind, I laugh.

And, once hands are washed and we’re all settled around the dinner table, I shower my kids with stories of these darn teenagers, of these middle school miscreants that I am sentenced to teach.

I am a teacher of writing; I am a writer too.

I have strongly held beliefs about teaching, about learning, and about the way the world should work.

I delivered this letter to my 84 students on Monday, our very first day together in room 309.  My hope is that, through this piece, my new students begin to see exactly who I am and, more importantly, that they accept my invitation to learn, to teach, to grow, to give.

August 18, 2008

To My New Eighth Grade Students,

I like to begin the year by sharing a favorite story, and I particularly enjoyed this one, which I read about in The New York Times earlier this summer.  This true story reminded me of the power of individuals to make a difference in the world.

You see, there was this young woman, Beatrice, who graduated from Connecticut College this year.  You might be thinking, “Big deal.  People graduate from college all the time.”  Yes, but not women like Beatrice.   Why?  When Beatrice was a young girl living in Uganda, she desperately wanted to go to school, but she was destined to become illiterate because her parents were peasants and could not afford to send her to school.  She stayed home.

Meanwhile, across the world, a group of young children living in Connecticut were looking for a good cause.  They decided to pool together their money and buy goats for African villagers through Heifer International.  One of the goats, which cost just $120, went to Beatrice’s parents.  That goat mated with another and soon had twins.  Well, before they knew it, Beatrice and her siblings had plenty of goat’s milk to drink, which gave them a nutritional boost AND they were able to sell the extra milk for…money!

What do you think happened next?  Yes.  Beatrice’s parents decided that they could now afford to send their daughter to school.  She enrolled and was far older than the other students in her grade.  She studied hard and became the best student in the school.

But the story does not end there.  An American visiting the school was so impressed by Beatrice that she decided to write a book called Beatrice’s Goat, which became a bestseller.  Beatrice was such a phenomenal student that she won a scholarship not only to Uganda’a best girls’ high school, but then to Connecticut College.  Then, a group of donors to Heifer International, so taken by her story, which had been made famous by the American writer, paid for her living expenses.

Beatrice graduated from college this summer, becoming the first person from her village to ever earn a college degree from America.  She plans to pursue a master’s degree from Clinton School of Public Service in Arkansas and then to return to Africa to work for an aid group.   Wow.  All of this resulted from a few little kids who hoped to make a difference in the life of another.

*            *            *            *

We all have hundreds of chances each day to make a positive difference in someone else’s life. I hope that you will think about that as you work your way through the year on this team, in this classroom.  Think about what you can do to help breed an atmosphere of kindness around here. Think about what you can do to help make this team feel like a community.  The 8-South teachers will also be asking you to think about what we can do to help heal the world.

Think, too, about what IS, and what should be, our responsibility to those around us.  We will explore this idea through the core texts that we will read this year:  The Miracle Worker, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Of Mice and Men.  Each of these books has a character that reaches out to another human being, one who, like Beatrice, is in desperate need of help.

*            *            *            *

I hope that our classroom is a place where you seize the chance to be kind, to explore fresh ideas, to take risks.  You must be patient with yourself and have faith in your ability.

Everyone in this classroom has stories to share.  Since there is only one YOU in this world, you bring a unique perspective to share.  Nobody else in this class has shared your exact challenges, been where you’ve been, grown up with your family.  When you share these experiences, both in discussion and in your writing, the whole class will be enriched.  I know forward to getting to know each one of you.  One of my goals is that each one of you will feel comfortable voicing your opinions and sharing your ideas.  We need to learn from each other’s experiences.

Too many people have a distorted notion of what it means to be a great teacher.  We sometimes think of someone who has all of the answers, all of the knowledge, but, really, I believe that a great teacher is someone who asks questions, who seeks answers, and who is not afraid to admit that oftentimes, her own students are the greatest teachers.  I look forward to being your teacher this year; I look forward, too, to all that I know you will teach me this year.  We all have a lot to learn.

Love,

Ms. Baker

*****
Write me back, in letter format, on looseleaf paper or typed.  In your letter, please do the following:
1.    Respond to the story that I have told you here and/or to something else that I have said in this letter.
2.    Share the important details of a story that you really like, real or fictional.  Think about stories that you have read, heard, and seen (i.e. movie plots).
3.    What are your strengths/interests/talents?
4.    What are your hopes for Literacy class this year?
5.    Share anything else that would help me get a better sense of the person you are.

My eight-year-old son, nicknamed “Mighty” from birth, is intuitive beyond his years and, with that, he tends to over think and, yes, to worry and worry. And, right now, he and I are in a tight race as to who is struggling more with the impending back-to-school transition. He is being combative. So is Mom. He is short on patience. So is Mom. He is having a difficult time choosing an activity that will sustain his interest. Ditto. I wish that I could claim to be acting more mature than he is, but even that is not a foregone conclusion.

Anyway, after an exhausting day where not even Dairy Queen chocolate dipped cones eased anyone’s tension, well, he and I finally found some moments of closeness at bedtime. This is the easiest time in our household to have quiet conversations about life.

You see, Mighty received his third grade class roster today and that brought with it new butterflies for the young guy. He’s worried because he’s got Mr. Heyman, who is brand-new to the school. The Unknown. And he is worried because, I swear to you, the boy has tallied up the number of “wild” kids in his class. There are eight, according to my young son, a figure that does not, in his estimation, bode well for Mr. Newbie. Or for him. Mighty cannot understand why class size increased from last year or why they would not have spread the “wealth” of wildness around a bit more. He cannot understand why third graders have to take MAP tests or how he will navigate his way through recess, where, once again, the boys will cheat at soccer. Back in the classroom, he wonders whether he will be able to focus at his table if other kids are talking, flinging boogers or doing whatever else “wild” third graders do. Mighty, who prides himself on impeccable behavior at school, worries that he might get caught up in the brushfire and somehow land in the principal’s office. Oh, and he worries that he will be burdened by piles of homework. It IS third grade, after all, he utters, all knowingly.

Amazing.

He is my son.

And I share his burden.

I, too, worry about too many bodies stuffed into my classroom. And about whether I will engage each of my eighth graders enough to make them not want to have farting contests or text message each other under their desks. I worry about whether the environment will feel unsafe due to bullying that I do not see and about whether I will be complicit in allowing a certain few to distract and impede the learning of others. I worry, even after all these years, about knowing how much homework, if any, is the right amount. Oh, yeah, and I guess I worry a little bit about MAP tests too.

And when my eighth graders pile in next week, looking all “too cool for school” in their sassy outfits, tonight will remind me that they are, in so many ways, still little kids dressed in big-kid costumes. They may be flirting in the hallways and gossiping in the bathrooms, but some, or maybe even many, are just masking anxiety about the upcoming school year. What is down this path known as eighth grade? Who are these strangers who will be my teachers? Will they notice when I am sad? Will they give me challenging work so that I am not sitting here, bored? Will that annoying boy be allowed to whistle during class like he was last year? Will my teacher require me to peer edit even though I cannot stand to share my writing? Will she make me read aloud in class?

They are my awesome responsibility, each one of them.

And as Kylene Beers writes in her book, When Kids Can’t Read: What Teachers Can Do for those students who are coming to us after failure upon failure, “Their willingness to try, even halfheartedly, one more time is a fragile gift they hand to us.”

Oh, yes.

****

It is past midnight and I am still awake, revising this post, wondering what Mr. Heyman might be worrying about right now, and wondering whether Mighty is right, that the poor guy is about to step into the biggest dance party of his lifetime. Let’s hope not, for his sake, for Mighty’s sake.

Meanwhile, my boy is finally peaceful in his bed, dreaming, I imagine, about his beloved Cardinals maybe shutting out the Cubbies in Game #2 of this weekend’s series.

I hope, more than anything, that Mr. Heyman will cherish this little guy, this gift, that I will soon be sending to him.

Ten years ago, at the request of my principal, who believed so deeply in me, I wrote and delivered this speech. I have since presented at national conferences, yet being invited to address all of the new teachers in my District stands as the biggest honor of my career so far. A colleague sent the piece into the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, where it was later published. Regardless of whether you are a new teacher or a veteran, I hope you draw from it some inspiration as you step (or bounce, or trudge, or dance) into this new school year.

“Those Who Can, Teach: Advice to New Teachers.”

I am a runner. I began three years ago after my older brother, Andrew, a marathon runner, convinced me, despite my whining, that there was no lingering lung damage from the pneumonia I had contracted at two weeks of age. “You’re just lazy,” he quipped. But, life was about to change. I had decided that, after twenty seven years, I was tired of wheezing my way through life…I wanted to be in shape. “Start with five minutes and build up slowly. Anybody, even a grandmother, can run for five minutes,” he insisted. I had my doubts. But, for weeks, I pulled on my Sauconys, stretched for twenty minutes, chose music for my Walkman for fifteen, and then ran for five. Slowly, amazingly, I began to build up stamina. I ran for seven minutes, then 10 minutes, then 12. Now, 40. Amazing.
What does any of this have to do with teaching? Some would call teaching, like running, a form of torture. But, I see things differently. And although I am not an expert (is anyone?), much of the advice I would give new teachers connects to this fine sport of running.

Don’t Forget to Breathe. Some of you are probably feeling quite out of breath right now, wondering if perhaps you’ve fooled everyone, (including your principal and superintendent), into thinking you were really the best person for this crazy job. Or maybe you’re out of breath because there are only 188 more hours to prepare your lesson plans and you’ve got thirty more books on teaching that you wanted to peruse this summer. Relax. Breathe. You will be ready. There has been no error in the selection process.

An Uphill is Always Followed by a Downhill, and Vice Versa. Why else would people be crazy enough to run, or, similarly, to teach? You will have days when you will wonder why you did not go to law school, like the rest of your college roommates did. You will have days when you will dream about a job that lets you escape behind a computer screen for three hours. And, you will have days when you will fantasize about being one of those people who gets to actually go out for a long lunch every day, rather than wolfing down a peanut butter sandwich and some potato chips. But, then, something amazing will happen. You will drag yourself into your classroom one morning and little Julie will be waiting by the door, with an editorial from yesterday’s newspaper in her hand. “I thought you’d agree with this,” she will say, “so I cut it out for you.” Then you will know you will make it, at least through the week.

Brag About Accomplishments, your own and those of your students. Find someone who will at least pretend to listen to your boasts. I know that Desmond, my dog, does not really care that I ran an extra 1/8 of a mile more than I usually do, or that the ever-disruptive Mark said that he’s been thinking he’d maybe like to have a friend like George from Of Mice and Men. But, at 4:30, when I collapse on the sofa, Desmond pretends to care. He bounces around and licks my face. We tend, as educators, to focus too much of our attention on our failures. That, as we know, is a societal problem. My advice to you this year is to brag. Tell your principal or your mentor when an activity in your class went especially well. Write yourself a love letter in your journal. Buy yourself flowers for your desk to congratulate yourself on a week well-done. Send positive letters home to parents. Fight the tendency to be negative. It will make a huge difference in your life. A former professor of mine once said, “Pessimism leaves a bad taste in your mouth without any mouthwash.” Vow to be an optimist.

Remember to Enjoy the Journey. I confess to sometimes resorting to minute counting as I run. Usually, though, I prefer to admire the trees. But, having said that, I do remember sitting at home in January as a new teacher, biting my nails, and counting how many more times I would have to teach my dreaded fifth hour class. I actually dreamed about catching mononucleosis or some other non-life-threatening communicable disease. Try to avoid such detrimental habits. Part of why I love teaching now is because I am convinced that I laugh a whole lot more throughout the day than all of my friends who make more money than I do. Try to make this the year that you learn to laugh at your students’ crazy antics, laugh at your own foolish mistakes, relish in the small achievements. Go to Friday happy hours with your colleagues, even if you feel like doing nothing else but dragging home for a 48-hour nap. This camaraderie will make the journey a whole lot more pleasant.

Take a Day Off Every Now and Then. Don’t Ignore Your Aches and Pains. I only run every other day, sometimes every third. Our minds, like our bodies, need time to rest. The demands in this district are intense. Leave those ungraded essays at school occasionally. Rent Singin’ in the Rain on a Monday night. Read a novel with adult-only themes. Go to an early evening movie. Get a massage. Just because we enlisted to become teachers does not mean that we have agreed to forego any semblance of a healthy life. Similarly, don’t be afraid to take a day off for mental health. Having that extra time to regroup and to rest can make a major difference…it can also prevent physical illness. Take care of yourself.

Stay Cool. You will encounter strangers who will ask, in an accusatory tone, why students are not as smart as they used to be, why teachers today are not teaching the basics, like grammar and multiplication tables. You will meet parents who genuinely think that they are experts on teaching, just because they were once students. Finally, you will find students who will question every single thing you say, including “good morning.” Be prepared for this. Stand on your convictions, speak clearly, plow forward, and try your best not to get defensive, irrational, or overheated. As I said earlier, don’t forget to breathe.

If You Get Lost, Ask for Directions. It is easy to feel humbled, and overwhelmed by the incredible caliber of teachers working beside you in this district. But, I would advise you to use this wealth of resources to help better your own practices. Seek out conversations about books. Ask for suggestions on classroom management. Before making a difficult phone call to a parent, elicit suggestions from the thirty-year veteran next door. Teaching can be an incredibly isolating experience, but it does not need to be.

Remember That There Are Many Ways to Reach Home. While it’s great to ask for and to listen to advice, know that there are a dozen powerful ways to teach a sonnet, to teach about the Holocaust, or even to arrange a classroom. Trust yourself. Trust your abilities. Trust that the path you are on is a fruitful one. There is, after all, no manual to follow.

We are blessed with this unique chance to help kids find their own path to learning, their own paths to happiness and to virtue. What else in life could be more important or more meaningful?

I wish you luck. I wish you many, many productive and happy miles. I hope to see you on the road.

****

P.S.

So, of course, the Walkman is now an I-pod, and, yes, the dog, Desmond, is now just a bag of white powder resting in a cardboard box on the mantle. And on nights like tonight, when I am feeling panicked, desperately mourning the loss of summer, I do still miss his bouncy way and the kisses that he planted so aimlessly across my face. But, with four more days left before the craziness begins, I am trying to relax, trying to breathe, trying to remind myself that there can, indeed, be balance and that, though I am still no expert, I do know a thing or two about how to teach.

I just set my alarm for 6 a.m. It may be 98 degrees outside with heat advisories warning us all to remain sealed inside, but, darn it, I am going out for a run in the morning. And when I return with my drenched body, and my own children ask me how far I have run, I plan to brag and then brag some more. Yes, that’s right, past Party City. Yup, almost to Grandpa’s house. That’s right, I didn’t stop to walk. No, not once. And when the boasting has ceased and my children are sufficiently impressed, then we will load into the mini-van and head to Trader Joe’s, where I will buy myself a bunch of sunflowers to celebrate my run and to celebrate the start of another year of doing what I love.

The e-Bay auction ended. The selling price? Just under $384,000. Without getting all metaphysical, $384,000ish was the value of Ian Usher’s life. You see, after the guy’s marriage turned sour, Usher decided that he would end it all. No, not suicide. This Australian immigrant decided to auction off his life on e-Bay. His life included the following: car, house, skydiving gear, friends (he promised an introduction to them), and even a job (his boss assured a trial period in his sales position for the top bidder). The guy even sold his jet skis. Amazing.

So, with $384,000ish in his pocket, Usher hopped on a plane and away he went–to his brand spankin’ new life filled with, well, with nothing, I suppose.

It all sounds refreshing somehow. When the children have just finished an Olympian hair-pulling competition over whether they will watch Sportscenter or Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, when the breakfast bowls that are still heaped in the sink (from yesterday?) now require a chisel to scrape off the Life Cereal, when the stuffed animals piled into baskets officially outnumber the children in the neighborhood, when the garden that was so exquisite when first purchasing the house now has a tangle of weeds with just an occasional flower, well, the ultimate e-Bay sale does not sound half bad.

And then when, with two weeks left of summer, my eight-year-old son pulls out his official Summer Cursive Practice packet, I begin thinking that maybe tossing curriculum on an e-Bay auction might not be a bad idea either. I mean, cursive? Out of 90 eighth grade students that I taught last year, two of them wrote in cursive. Let my boy learn how to read cursive and how to sign his name and, bingo, as a parent, I’m happy. Instead, let my third grade son spend that time researching, keyboarding, composing persuasive letters, understanding the basics of our dependence on oil, knowing who Condolezzi Rice is and what she does for a living, thinking critically about issues. “Mommy, will you help me with my cursive?” he asked yesterday. Help you? Jeez, I have not used cursive in years, my boy, but I do remember that that capital Q is a rather strange-looking fellow.

So, barring any compelling research to suggest that writing in cursive is a valuable 21st century skill (please send me some, by the way, if you know of any), I say we auction cursive off to the highest bidder.

But let’s not stop there. What if educators put their whole curriculum, that’s right, the whole kit-n-kaboodle on the auction block and let the competitive bidding begin? Why not? Wouldn’t that be exciting to start with nothing and then to rebuild, piece by piece? To celebrate what works well (maybe we could buy that back) and to not be afraid to say, hey, this part may actually not be the best that there is, especially given the demands of the future? Maybe this would allow those who work on middle school interdisciplinary teams, for example, to quit trying to forge connections between, say, Of Mice and Men and the ancient river civilizations. We could design units that provide much more powerful connections for students through stronger bridges between Language Arts and Social Studies and between other disciplines as well.

When is the last time that the teachers in your school district got together (K-12), yanked apart the curriculum, and wrestled with poignant questions dealing with where, when, how, and why oh why do you teach what you teach? Imagine that an acceptable answer could not be, “because that’s what the state mandates” or “because that is the sequence in the textbooks that we last adopted.”

What would you fight to keep? To what would you willingly wave goodbye? What would you realign?

It’s all a dream, I know, but there’s still a few weeks left of summer, still time to dream. Time. That commodity. Rethinking, of course, takes barrels of it, and so maybe we just need to tell our students, “Your teachers are thinking. Just stay home and read books for a year or two. Yes, audiobooks are fine. We’ll call you when we’re ready for you again.” It can be so hard to let go of summer, don’t you think?

I recently read about a project where teams of students in Washington designed a state-of-the-art high school for the year 2050. I envy those students, working collectively, building from scratch, debating the real needs for the future.

Just like, on some days, I even envy ol’ Ian Usher.

I have been thinking about the race that I ran this morning. The 8K. Although I have been a runner, off and on, for more than a decade, one of my Summer of ‘08 goals has been to participate in my first-ever organized running event.

There’s deep irony about my whole passion for running. My most vivid school-related memories involve being the last one trudging around the track for the Presidential Fitness tests in Physical Education. The last one. Here comes little Debby, brown eyes pressed to the pavement, cheeks purple, hoping that none of the speedy girls and boys would notice me, knowing, of course, that they all did. Year after year, I was the skinny girl with the long legs who moved like the tortoise, an embarrassment to the President, to my PE teachers, to myself. To me, the Presidential initiative seemed like nothing more than an exercise in humiliation.

In some ways, I guess, we never grow up. Last night, little Debby, now Debra, 40 years old, mother of two, still skinny with long legs, lay awake in her bed worrying about being the last one to finish the 8K. No kidding. I considered all of the reasons why the whole run-in-a-race idea was misguided, even silly. I even had the Getting Lost in a Strange Place nightmare that has plagued me, off and on, since childhood. I completely psyched myself out.

Had I not already paid the fee for the race, when my alarm rang early this morning, I would have yanked the covers back over my head. No doubt. But, money is money and goals are goals, so I lifted myself out of bed, pulled on running clothes and a baseball cap, safety pinned the #4 to my chest, and off I went. To the 8K.

I emerged from my minivan and entered the race scene insecurely, timidly glancing around. Where should I stand? What stretches were other runners doing? Did I have my number pinned in the right place? I took cues from those more experienced, those with proven success. They were surprisingly easy to pick out of the crowd, as they sported t-shirts from previous races, even from marathons, to me, all symbols of their status.

The race began, and the herd quickly separated. Many runners swished past me, as I struggled to maintain a steady pace without breaking down in the 85 degree morning heat. I think about how many times (answer: three) I looked behind me, determined that, this time, I would not be the purple-faced caboose.

I did not have a great run. I fatigued early and never felt the sense of peace and clearheadedness that I often feel when I run. And although I sought distraction–my I-pod, the scenery, daydreams–my focus remained almost exclusively on how I was faring and whether or not I would finish without the disgrace (in my own mind, a disgrace) of having to walk.

As I finally crossed the finish line, a crowd of strangers, all faster than I, cheered and screamed, “Way to go.” There were treats waiting for me–peaches, grapes, and precious Gatorade, oh yes, for my throat that had never been dryer.

After the race, friends celebrated with me. Nobody asked, “How fast did you go?” but rather, “Did you have a good time? Was it fun? Would you do it again?” My sister, over the phone from Miami, said, “I’m proud of you.”

* * *

In many ways, our students are like this herd of runners; some move with confidence with those “t shirts” emblazoned with messages of success, while others timidly search for cues, trying still, even in eighth grade, to know how to play the school game, or, at least, how to, please god, just avoid total embarrassment.

What is it really like to be this struggling student in our classrooms? To be someone who cannot read well, or solve a simple equation, or for whom a writing assignment is a ghastly chore? What is it like to be someone who feels so darn fatigued, yet continues to plow on, despite little or no history of success? Or to be someone who has decided that crawling back under those covers is truly the way to go?

How well do we, year after year, teach these students who struggle to succeed? Do we give them a clear map of the race course, assuring them that if they get lost, we will be there to help steer them back? And then, are we really there if and when they do get lost? Or do we make excuses for them, for us?

Do we help them set realistic goals, and a pace that is reasonable, just for them? Or do we require them to keep pace with everyone else, knowing full well that they will overheat, or shutdown, if not now, then later. And that this is in nobody’s best interest.

Do we establish a climate in our classrooms where all learners are valued, not just the fastest? A climate where “Way to Go” is the message that we all send, teachers and students alike, rather than “Why Did It Take You So Long?” And no, I’m not talking about empty praise, but praise for sweat that has been poured, for finish lines that have been crossed, for students who have crawled out of bed on a particular morning and accomplished something, maybe not earth-shattering, but important enough to be recognized, even celebrated.

After all, finishing an 8K in 50ish minutes may not seem like much to most people. But, to me, it’s worthy of breaking out that Gatorade and raising a glass.

I just hope that I will remember to toast more of these moments within my own classroom.