To the Finish Line

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.

I am tired of hoops. Of the game. Of the rules that, too often, seem arbitrary. The traditions that rarely, if ever, get questioned.

Why should teachers have to shell out cash for some master’s degree somewhere in order to get a fatter paycheck? Who among us believes that there is some correlation between that piece of paper and the quality of the teaching that occurs in the classroom? Anyone? Anyone? For those who need research to support anecdotal observations that there is, in fact, typically no correlation whatsoever, here is an excerpt from a study on the topic: http://tinyurl.com/62dszf

So, let me find the cheapest master’s degree around because, after all, I’m a beginning teacher with student loans and I don’t have a magical slush fund stashed away underneath my bed, and so let me just get that blessed piece of paper in my hand, so I can do the crazy Move-Me-On-Over-Toward-the- Right-Side-of -That-Scale-And-Let-Me-Pay-Off -Part-of-My-Credit-Card-Debt dance.

Hoops.

I’m certainly not opposed to furthering our own education. Of course not. Wouldn’t that be ironic? But for how much longer are we going to pretend that that person waving the master’s degree is now more valuable to his school district than he was before? That he is now more able to engage students, to motivate students, to improve students’ test scores? Or, conversely, that the person without the master’s degree is, somehow, less valuable? Assessing the value of a teacher is tricky and, of course, deeply controversial, but I suggest that it is time to rethink the long-standing tradition and to have honest conversations about what teacher quality actually means, how we assess it, and how, in turn, we show that we value it.

Speaking of value, the math teacher on my team, a soon-to-be third year teacher, spent this mid-July morning at school, training veteran teachers on the use of technology tools. He will spend Thursday afternoon with his teammates planning interdisciplinary units. He set up Moodle in our building and then trained us on its use. He devotes every lunch period to tutoring students who are struggling. He reads education blogs at night. I could go on and on (but he may already be mad that I’m publicly boasting about him at all). The point is that anything that Dave needs to learn in order to continue to grow and to become a master teacher, he will learn, regardless of a master’s degree. He is that kind of a human being, that kind of a teacher–bright, passionate, and incredibly hard working. A gem for his students; a gem for his colleagues. And yet, until he figures out where and when to pursue that degree, he will remain the biggest bargain ever to walk through the door. That strikes me as insulting.

Why do we still rely on such a simple formula to determine teachers’ monetary value? Because it’s easy? Because it’s neat? Because nobody’s feelings will get hurt? Because determining any other means is truly impossible? I wonder…

What do you think?

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