In Theory. . .
On a warm, clear morning back in August, I gathered with a small group of writers on the back patio of an east side coffee shop. We were catching up on what we had missed during the summer session of GMWP’s Teacher Leadership In Writing Yearlong Institute. I was feeling refreshed and renewed from a summer full of cross-country travel and a week facilitating a high school writing camp session with a beloved mentor.
I had recently bought myself a necklace to celebrate the new school year, a small silver circle on a silver chain, with a pause symbol printed on it. I wanted it to serve as a physical reminder of my pause, my time away from teaching these past two years. During that pause, I spent time taking care of my family and working through a graduate program, focusing on issues connected to urban education. The day after this August meeting, I would be starting new teacher training in a new district. I knew that soon I would be caught up in the whirlwind, the day to day business of high school teaching. The necklace would help me remember the time I spent away from teaching: thinking, learning, and reflecting.
On that August morning, naturally, we wrote together. We wrote and talked and listened to each other, as we do in the Writing Project. I wrote that I was scared about going back to teaching. I was scared of losing my hope and losing my why. I promised myself I would take time to pause and pay attention. I wrote about engagement. I wrote about humanity, identity, good thinking, and high expectations. Those were the things I wanted to focus on in this new school with these new groups of students.
To be completely honest, my fear has come true, to an extent. My hope and my why have definitely spent some days wavering, and threatening to disappear. I haven’t always kept my promise of pause and reflection.
In theory, I was mentally and emotionally prepared to handle these challenges. I had new education and new reflection. In theory, none of the new challenges I’ve been facing are particularly surprising. I’ve read about them. I’ve heard about them. I’ve expected them.
Even though I expected these challenges, the actual reality of them has, on some days, felt overwhelming and hopeless. Although we have amazing and talented teachers at my school, we still have teacher vacancies. That means that some of my freshmen did not have an Algebra teacher until December, and they haven’t had a Spanish teacher all year. When my students have inconsistency and lack of accountability during other parts of their school day, it makes my goals of consistency and high expectations that much more challenging.
Although we have amazing and talented support staff at my school, there are a huge amount of students who need emotional and behavioral support each day. Some of my students struggle with physically staying in class because of their struggles outside of class. When they do stay in class, it’s difficult for them to focus. I’m continually seeing a huge lack of stamina and engagement in the classroom, and it deeply concerns me.
At the end of my first year away from teaching, a Writing Project colleague provided me with a beautiful metaphor. We were discussing my time away from the classroom and the chance it gave me to reflect. She compared me to a gardener in wintertime who enthusiastically and carefully plans out their garden for the following spring. She said how fortunate I was, having all this time to plan my garden. . .a metaphor for my classroom. It was a hopeful and beautiful metaphor, and I did spend quite a lot of time imagining that garden. However, I was careful not to be too exacting or structured, because I knew I wouldn’t really know what it looked like until I got there.
Again, theory and reality prove to be different creatures. You can’t really understand how a garden will grow without understanding the soil that you’re working with. Now that I’m metaphorically standing in that metaphorical garden, I know that things have been struggling to grow there. I have to keep exploring the space and nurturing it each day. Some days I see more progress than others.
On that beautiful August morning, I wrote an initial inquiry question for this yearlong institute: What habits, routines, actions, and language am I using to prioritize humanity in my classroom, while also holding high expectations for my students?
More recently, I’ve been asked how I bring myself into the equation. How do I hold high expectations for myself, and prioritize my own humanity?
I shared with another friend and Writing Project colleague that my writing process has been different this year. I can’t manage to publish a blog. I write, but then consistently get stuck in between drafting and submitting, waiting for a last burst of inspiration that never arrives. She reminded me that I’ve changed as an educator, and so it makes sense that my writing process looks different. I’ve taken on a new teaching role that’s brought on new challenges, new questions, new reflections. She said of course my writing process has changed, because I’ve changed, and pushed me to prioritize my own humanity along with my students’, giving myself grace and patience to evolve.
I had a brilliant professor at UW Milwaukee last spring who would talk about “simple” versus “easy.” In theory, the solutions to our biggest education problems are extremely simple. A great deal of success can come from strong, authentic relationships, balanced with high expectations. It sounds extremely simple, but it’s far from easy. A colleague I recently observed and interviewed told me the biggest compliment someone could give her as an educator is to say she is a “warm demander.” I feel the same. Strong relationships and high expectations. Simple, but definitely not easy.
I lose focus on some days, but I keep returning to these questions about high expectations and humanity. Little consistent practices seem to make a positive impact. Things like telling students I’m glad to see them, and asking them how they’re doing. Things like listening to their problems that have nothing to do with English class. Things like inviting them in at lunch time for support on an assignment.
One day when a student was leaving after working through an assignment at lunch, she thanked me. She said not many teachers would be willing to do that.
One day when another student started reading her new choice book, she called me over and whispered: “Ms. Hart, I love this book! It feels like I’m watching a movie!”
One day another student’s face lit up with pride when she read that I’d co-nominated her for student of the month. She’d been struggling, but had also been showing some awesome leadership and empathy.
These are little moments, but they are the blooms, the hope in that classroom garden. Our garden is a messy work in progress, but the blooms are there, and continuing to grow, if I keep reflecting and paying attention.
