Back in Time on Leap Day:

An Empathy Project to Shadow a Student

As part of School Retool’s “Shadow a Student” challenge, I signed up to follow a student for his entire school day (well, almost the entire day) on Monday, February 29th. Kind of a fitting day — Leap Day, right? A day to change roles (think Sadie Hawkins); a day to go back in time…a day to go back to high school.

So how did it feel to be a student for a day? Here’s how it felt: There’s no coffee.

Seriously, though — I spent 6 class periods in a row shadowing my 10th grader, from the moment he arrived at 8:15 until study hall at 1 in the afternoon, which is when I booked out. Not wanting to hover during study hall, which would be creepy, I chose instead to end my experience at that time. Here, then, are my notes from the day, followed by reflections.

Today’s the day: Shadow A Student! Curiously, instead of feeling excited, I wake up feeling somewhat heavy and disappointed that my time is not going to be my own today. Perhaps that’s because I’m an introvert, and I not only cherish, but require quiet reflective periods during the day. I know I’m not going to get that today. Wonder how other introverted kids handle this?

It’s 8:15 a.m. I go up to the cafeteria, essentially a “holding pen” for early arrivals. Fairly quiet at the start, the space pretty quickly noisies up, with kids socializing, playing computer games, and a very few studying or sharing notes. I join my student at his table of friends and watch them chat & do a little homework together. I like the collaboration.

At 8:25, the bell rings, and we get up en masse and shuffle off to Advisory — essentially, Homeroom. Our advisor takes attendance. For the remainder of the 10 minutes, everyone socializes (again) or finishes homework. The advisor sighs, saying “This 12 minutes lasts way too long.”

It’s 8:45: Time for Gathering. As a Quaker school, we observe a daily 5 minute period of respectful silence before morning announcements. Once a week, we hold a traditional 30 minute “Meeting for Worship,” where students and faculty sit for a half hour. This can be difficult for many students. As it is, my student has trouble sitting quietly for the 5 minutes this morning while he tries hard to stifle a fit of the giggles precipitated by another kid. I can’t help thinking how much harder this must be for teenaged boys (my shadowee is 15). Or am I being gender-biased? Don’t know.

After gathering, the school day begins in earnest.

It’s 8:55 a.m. Period 1, English. Where’s my coffee? I miss it. Wondering if students miss their morning beverage too, whatever that might be. My shadowee and I get to class; it’s a small room with a ring of chairs. The first thing I note in this class is that my student, and in fact all the others, really seem comfortable in the space. Nobody fidgets with papers, and students have an easy give-and-take with the teacher that feels genuine. My student seems happily at home here, freely adding his opinion to the discussion that’s taking place — a close reading of the first chapter of The Catcher in the Rye. Because I am at a Quaker school, students address teachers by first name, which adds to the comfort factor. And the class size is small, which makes it easy for kids to be themselves. When it comes time to annotate in their books, no one hesitates to ask the teacher to put back the desks that have been pushed back against the wall for another purpose. It’s easier for them to write in their books at a desk. The teacher readily agrees and apologizes that they were not already arranged. The class feels good. 
So do I.

It’s 9:40 a.m. Period 2, Math. Where’s my coffee, dammit! In this class, the group seems equally comfortable. They either settle down to work in small groups if they feel like it, or by themselves if not. They clearly know the routine. I like that there is the room in the class for that kind of individuality. If kids have questions, they’re free to just speak up without needing prior permission or raising their hand. My student clearly feels comfortable; he works with a group of 3 other boys, and he likes math. So far, so good.

It’s 10:20 a.m. Period 3, Language Arts. There are 5 kids in this room for students with language-based learning differences. This class starts off with a bang: The teacher starts talking, almost rapid fire, right off the bat, while students file papers and organize their binders. I’m lost already. As she hands out quizzes, it’s apparent the kids are more interested in their grades than in reviewing their work for understanding or weaknesses. Hmmm. As the class progresses, I begin to sense kids’ stress level growing, including mine. Morphemes come and go. Kids begin to slump a little. The teacher projects onto her Smartboard a worksheet that kids mark up on their own hard copy. I find the sheet hard to read and confusing, and so do students. 
I immediately see where Microsoft Word isn’t the way to go with this particular objective. I make a note to speak with the teacher about an alternative solution.

It’s 11:05 a.m. Period 4, History. Class starts with organizing binders and worksheets. This class, larger than most at about 10 kids, then settles down to make notes on a worksheet. I smell coffee from the faculty lounge; some kids begin to ask what’s for lunch. Up until this class, there’s been a lot of teacher and student voice in the classrooms, but not now. The teacher works at grading papers; the students quietly take notes; occasionally one will interrupt the stillness with a question. Again, the room feels comfortable. And the quiet is a nice counterpoint; almost relaxing. While my student works diligently, I am bored. I pretend I’ve finished my work already and am just waiting for class to end. This is a familiar feeling.

It’s 11:50 a.m. Period 5, finally Lunch! My student wolfs down a sandwich and heads to the gym for some pick-up hoops with his friends. He doesn’t want me on his team: I’m 5’2” and couldn’t make a basket if it were 5’ off the ground. I go to my office to catch up a bit with work, get my long-overdue coffee, and decompress. But before I know it, the bell rings. It wasn’t enough time.

It’s 12:25 p.m. Period 6, Chemistry. Kids settle down pretty well, but as soon as the class gets underway, students stop engaging. I wonder why: Is it the subject matter? The teacher’s delivery? While several kids answer pretty simple questions readily, it feels like they’ve memorized the answers. The teacher spends a lot of time writing out sentences and terms on the whiteboard. I think, “Does this work? Does this add meaning or value or imprint learning?” I wonder if there’s another way for her to conduct the class without spending all that time writing. Soon, I have trouble concentrating. Concepts and vocabulary fly by: protons, neutrons, electrons. I start to lose it after a while and wonder if kids are too. I get the sense that kids are asking themselves, “Why does this matter?” and I have to admit, I’m asking the same thing. When the teacher hands back quizzes, once again students, including mine, immediately go for the grade. The teacher walks them thru the quiz line by line, thinking this is an opportunity for reflection. Nobody seems to be reflecting much, including my student. It’s all about the grade.

It’s 1:11 p.m. Period 7, Study Hall. I chat with my shadowee for about 5 minutes, asking him what his favorite classes are. Surprisingly, he says Chemistry and Language Arts. I express my surprise at this latter choice, admitting to him that I sensed it was difficult and stressful for him. . He allowed as how he wasn’t — maybe because I’m a “teacher.” I wonder how he would have replied had my questions been anonymous. I ask him how the day could be made better — perhaps more time to socialize, or more passing time? He shook his head. He seems pretty happy with the current setup. Considering that many of our kids have executive function difficulties, I can understand how the same predictable schedule, day after day, is comforting to them. For me, it’s a killer. I hate routine.

REFLECTION

I consider myself a natural empath, finding it easy to put myself into someone else’s position, to inhabit their point of view. It’s what makes arguing difficult because I always empathize with the other side. So I expected that this experiment would have been pretty easy, but it wasn’t. Not that my adult, teacherly side interfered. More that it was hard not to project my own high school experiences onto my student. And I also suppose that, even subliminally, I was looking for weaknesses, challenges, opportunities to make the school day somehow “better,” but you know what? I didn’t much.

We program kids to do what adults tell them. From the time we start “doing school,” we know from grownups that there are rules, and schedules, and behaviors we need to abide by. By the time students reach high school, school has become their job. Go here, go there, do this, do that.

At my school, it seems that kids are pretty happy “employees.” Class periods don’t run overly long; there’s great camaraderie between faculty & students, and room for self-direction. Most importantly, I could tell that students have a voice, and that their voice is heard, which beautifully corroborates how we speak of our school to others.

Is there room for improvement? Sure. But let’s say we completely reinvent ourselves, top to bottom. We mix ages together, eliminate grades, flip classrooms, embark on a Design Thinking curriculum; we collaborate, curate, and create out the wazoo… would students be happier? I’d like to think so, and I certainly hope so. But I have a nagging feeling that for some kids, this new-and-improved school would just be another job. Perhaps if I’d followed a less-engaged student, I would have a clearer vision.

For now, being a “9-to-5” student at my school isn’t such a bad gig.

Except for coffee.