Why Do We Do This?
To toss or to transform the traditions of education
I knew by his eyes.
“Hello,” I said, my smile hiding my irritation that someone’s grandfather had arrived an hour early for the ceremony. “I bet you’re here for Jay.”
“Why yes,” he replied, astonished by my keen sense for genetics. But neither Jay nor his grandfather were the true cause of my irritation.
It was tradition’s fault.
It had been 3 years since we had gathered in our high school’s performing arts center to induct new National Honor Society (NHS) members. COVID had forced us to abandon the April in-person event and to go virtual with an interactive program complete with a video of our keynote speaker.
Yet another tradition the pandemic had turned on its side, causing me to question, Why do we do this?
With the help of our What We Can Become (WWCB) course through the Greater Madison Writing Project, I’d gotten used to asking that question. While the pandemic exposed (or made more obvious) breaks in our institution, we sought ways to better understand and connect with the humans in our classrooms, to build meaning into our curriculum, to teach with intention.
Yet there I was, neatly alphabetizing NHS certificates along a series of folding tables and feeling grumpy about it.
I’m the first to admit, I’m not much for ceremonies in the first place. I mean, I did elope. But each year leading up to the NHS induction, students often question the point of the ceremony. The officers dutifully begin planning, and then eye-roll at what seem to them such antiquated practices. Do we have to call each person’s name? That’s so boring. Are we seriously asking them to recite the NHS pledge in unison? That’s so cultish.
Inductees actually used to hold candles during the pledge, but officers cut that practice about 5 years ago. Plus, it was a fire hazard.
So with each certificate I placed and straightened, I secretly wondered how I might phase out the tradition of a formal induction ceremony.
For the last couple years, the pandemic had given us a break from it all. From the stress of making sure students followed up on their tasks — from the questions for which I didn’t have great answers — from the eye rolls.
I was on the S’s when Jay’s grandpa approached me.
“What can I help you with?” I asked.
“I know it’s early, but I wanted to make sure I got good seats. This is important,” he said.
Some of my grumpiness fell away. “Jay’s fortunate to have you here. You can certainly grab your seat now if you want.” As he made his way to the front row, I considered his words, This is Important. He was so matter-of-fact. So certain.
My attention quickly turned to other matters: The video projection that wasn’t working properly, the NHS officer who hadn’t shown up yet, the box of NHS pins that had gone missing, the soon-to-be-inducted member who had broken the heel off her left shoe…
But things fell into place as they do, and I took the stage to welcome the students and their families. As I looked out at the audience, I noticed the front row.
I knew by their eyes.
There sat eight of Jay’s family members. Grandpa had shown up early to save seats for 3 generations.
This is important.
I can’t remember what I said during my brief welcome before handing the mic to one of our NHS officers, but I do remember the joy of seeing all those gathered for Jay. That joy carried me back to my seat, sat with me throughout the ceremony, and vanquished any residue of my earlier grumpiness.
As a teacher in the classroom, I’ve learned that my perspective is not the only one to consider. The perspectives of the other humans in our shared space matter just as much. That night my NHS students and I were sharing a space with families who value opportunities to formally recognize their students’ achievements.
I hadn’t considered the magnitude of that until I saw Jay’s family. It was a lesson I’d need to pass on to my NHS students: What they do is important. It matters.
But another lesson from that night crept into my thoughts. It’s tempting to just throw out curricular traditions that’ve lost some of their impact and meaning. At times that’s the right call as we reflect on and improve the impact of our instruction; teachers are nothing if not creative and innovative, and we’re always sharing new ideas online, at conferences, and in our hallways. Tossing the tradition and replacing it with something new, however, isn’t the only option.
We might use our creativity and innovation to breathe new life into old tricks. To transform the tradition.
Just as our new group of NHS members can get to work on making our induction ceremony matter instead of just throwing it out, I can do the same with teaching practices I’ve questioned over the past few years.
- Do we have to throw out whole-class reads, or can we make them matter?
- Do we have to throw out grammar instruction, or can we make it matter?
- And do we need to throw out the lesson that bombed 1st period, or can we make it matter for 2nd period?
Depending on the humans in the room, my answers might vary. And that’s the key.
Because all those humans matter. They’re important.
