Pursuing Context: students

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4 Things I'll Never Say to a Kid Again (And Why You Shouldn't Either)

Whoever first said sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me, needs to endure a verbal beat down on the playground from a few irritable fifth graders.

Words hurt.

As a teacher, I’ve unwittingly said things in the classroom that have done more harm than good. I’ve said all of the phrases on this list more times than I’d care to admit. They seem loving at face value, but can be destructive in the long run.

1. This is easy.

Yikes. Easy for whom? Me? The 2/3 of the class who was at this school last year? The kids who love math?

This sends a mixed message at best. If we believe kids are individuals, then there will be differences in learning. My old superintendent used to say “Every child can learn, but not in the same way and not on the same day.”

The lingering question this leaves is what if it isn’t easy? This is where students start to feel self-doubt and stupidity.

Better to say: I hope this is do-able for you.

2. You are so smart!

What happens the next time the student isn’t so smart? Were you lying? What is the expiration date on this statement? How often does a student need to live up to this?

A student’s follow up question to this might be what will I be next time I can’t do something? This can make a student feel insecure and feed into a people-pleaser mentality. This can also wreck a student struggling with perfectionism.

Better to say: Tell me about your work.

3. Great job!

Adults say this so much to kids. What does it even mean? It’s too general and can marginalize the learning process over the end product.

This is another phrase that can feed into a child’s need for approval. A kid could feel like he constantly needs to check in with you to make sure he’s doing a “great job.” Enough of this will diminish confidence and initiative.

Better to say: It looks like you worked hard on that.

4. You should already know this.

According to whom? The principal? A stuffy administrator in the state capitol? This year’s curriculum map?

This statement can really mess up a kid. The word should is the culprit here. It gives the student the impression that she missed something. Probably something important.

There are so many what ifs when a teacher says this. What if the child was absent during that lesson last year? What if the student had skill gaps and wasn’t ready to learn it when it was presented? What if the kid was spaced out because their dad was terminally ill?

Better to say: Some of you may know this already. It’s okay if you don’t. I’m here to help.

What are some things you’ll never say to a kid again?

photo credit: gfairchild cc

My Biggest Failure as a Teacher

I can’t be that teacher to every student.

It took me a while to learn that. It’s easy to buy into the Hollywood super teacher mentality. It’s alluring and sexy. It’s exciting and makes for a great screen play. It’s also complete fiction.

I had my biggest failure as a teacher this year. It wasn’t failing to get my report cards done on time. Although I’ve done that. It wasn’t losing a kid on a field trip. Although I’ve done that too. It wasn’t setting off the school alarm and having a subsequent conversation with disctrict security. Again, I’ve been there. It wasn’t even forgeting to put a kid’s picture in the school yearbook. Guilty again.

This time was a biggie.

The Arrival

He came to my classroom a month after school started. His indifferent face told me to keep away. I wasn’t used to such stoicism in a young kid, but I tried to be inviting and excited. I’ve learned there’s always a story behind the story.

I took his mumbling and lack of eye contact as shyness. He seldom wanted to join group activities or participate in class discussions. He seemed to be a bit of a recluse.

I would talk to him, pat him on the shoulder, and joke with him. I tried anything I could think of to encourage him. No effect. No response. I began to worry and knew this was a young person who was in need of help.

I kept at it for days, weeks, and months. I was stressing over him. My desire was only to get through to him. Sadly, he was becoming more hostile toward me. Little did I know the bricks he used to build his wall were laid in place long before his late start to 4th grade.

The Buildup

I went easy on him for the first two months he was in my room. Something was obviously going on at home. He didn’t need any extra stress from me. But the encouragement got tiresome after a while. And I hated that.

I had many a talk about him with my partner teacher. She’s down to earth, funny in the best of sarcastic ways, and a great teacher. She also had a pretty good rapport with this student.

“It’s because you’re a dude. Don’t take it personally. You know his home life,” she said. She was right. His eleven-year-old eyes had seen things that should never have been seen. My heart broke for him. But I was determined to get through to him. And I did get through to him, but not in the way I wanted.

I started to get tough. I was going to start laying down the law. Thoughts began swirling in my head: I was too soft. He didn’t respect me. He needed a strong male presence in his life. If he wasn’t going to talk to Mr. Nice Guy, maybe he would respect the Tough Guy Teacher.

So instead of pulling, I pushed. I pushed hard. And he pushed right back. Things got worse the harder I pushed. I was determined to reach him, though. Unfortunately, the opposite happened.

The Fallout

I completely lost my cool with him one frustrating spring afternoon. Our state tests loomed closer. The talkative class and my lack of sleep got the best of me. I pointed and yelled at him. I used sarcasm to shame him in front of the class.

Was he misbehaving? Definitely. Did he need a consequence? Probably. Did I handle the situation appropriately? Not even close.

What was his reaction to my adult hissy fit? He laughed at me. He looked straight at me, put the back of his hand in front of his mouth, and laughed.

That was one of my lowest moments as a teacher. At that instant I realized that he had won. I turned a connection into a conflict and lost disgracefully.

I wish I could tell you that we had an emotional heart-to-heart in the hallway that repaired our fractured relationship. I wish I could tell you that he began respecting me for the rest of the year. I wish I could tell you that he finished the year with a bang. But I can’t.

The Realization

I distinctly remember one night in late May. I tossed and turned in bed. I was on the brink of tears worrying about him and what his summer was going to be like. I can’t remember another time feeling so helpless about a student.

I wasn’t that teacher for him. And that has to be okay, because that’s the way teaching goes sometimes. We pour until we are empty. We burn until we are ashes.

I have to cling to the hope that, although he was my biggest failure, I still helped him in some way. I pray he’ll find a teacher out there who will truly make a difference in his life.

She Smelled of Feet

She smelled of feet. A perfectly normal five year old otherwise. She just smelled like feet. I would go on to realize that many kids had a distinct odor. Sometimes nice like fruity shampoo or laundry detergent. Sometimes not like ashtrays or feet.

It was her shoes. Or rather, her sockless feet inside of her shoes that produced the smell. They were a flat, brown situation with a single velcro strap. In my naiveté, I wondered why her parents just didn’t buy her more shoes. Like I said, a sweet girl otherwise.

There was a natural curiosity about her that only a kindergartener possesses. Constant questions were all part of a normal day. A child’s eyes see things that adult eyes cannot. Children haven’t yet been spoiled by the can’ts and doesn’ts.

There was an underlying sadness behind her tentative smiles. It was like the sun struggling to come around from behind an ominous cloud. I wouldn’t put my finger on it until much later in the year.

She came to my class several weeks after school started. I was young enough in my teaching career to be frustrated by her arrival. The class and I had already gotten our routines and procedures down. Things were clicking. The thought of having to train a new student was annoying.

“Did she miss anything?” her mom asked. No, lady. We’ve been staring at clouds for the last month. I haven’t been teaching anything to anyone yet. She didn’t miss a thing.

“We’ll get her caught up and where she neesd to be,” I assured the mom. It turned out that this girl was going to get me caught up to where I needed to be as a teacher.

In February of that school year, the mom told me that she was going to be pulling her daughter out of school for a week. Oh, great. Just what she needs. She’s already behind. Let’s get her even further behind the rest of the class. Doesn’t this mom know I have lessons to teach and material to cover? Some nerve…

My Turn

A week later the girl returned. The mom walked her down to class that morning. The mom told me that they had to return to their home town for some court proceedings. The mom told me that the girl, my late-to-enroll student, her daughter, had been abused by her ex-husband.

Oh. Every ounce of arrogance I had been accumulating vaporized in seconds. How could I have been such a pompous ass?

That encounter has shaped my teaching ever since. I am so thankful it happend early in my teaching. I think about it often when I meet students and parents as they come to my classroom. We never quite know their full story.

Students and families have to be our priority. I teach students, not subjects. It has to be about the students, because there is always a story behind the story. I just have to remember I have the opportunity to help write a better ending.

The Voice of a Classroom

What’s the voice of your classroom?

Every classroom has one. Obviously, there’s a literal voice that rises and falls with the ebb and flow of the day. The pin drop silence of independent reading quickly gives way to the verbal avalanche of group work. On any given day there is bound to be laughter, questions, silence, crying, cheering, complaining, whispering, and more questions.

But that’s not exactly what I’m talking about. I’m talking about a deeper voice. A voice that is felt more than heard. It’s the voice that penetrates to the very marrow of a classroom. That voice is forged in the fires of time. Hour by hour, day by day, the true voice of a classroom will begin to be heard.

The students in my classes created the sweetest voice this year. Of course every class is special, but this year was exceptional. The atmosphere we created was almost heart-wrenching to rip apart. It was a true classroom family.

Now it’s over. It’s time to move on, but that’s a good thing. Although goodbyes can be sad, voices need to grow and change and reverberate off different walls. And unlike a literal voice, if you close your eyes and be still, you can always hear the echoes of voices past.
(originally written June 12, 2012)

Books, Benches, and Babes

The blistering Texas sun beat down on the playground like an unrelenting drum. The clear June sky subtly reminded everyone that school was almost out. Almost.

I paced my usual recess duty path. I heard the usual arguing from the four-square game; I heard the the usual giggles from packs of girls, and I heard the usual clomping footsteps from all the runners. But then I saw something not that usual.

I saw Sam, one of my students, lying on his back on a bench with a book hovering inches above his face. Even the most voracious of readers give up on recess reading by early June. But not him. He was so into his book. The only thing moving were his eyes.

“Good book?” I asked.
“Yessir,” he said without looking up at me.

I walked away. I did not want to interrupt him any further. I know all too well the feeling of trying to read. And I know all too well the feeling of trying to read at recess. I was a recess reader when I was a kid.

On my first day of seventh grade at a new school, I only had my copy of The Outsiders to keep me company at recess. How fitting.

I blew the whistle to line up. I found myself walking beside Sam as we got ready to go inside. He had his book in tow. I looked at him with a wink and said “Don’t worry. You’ll get the babes and make the big bucks later in life- just like me.”

“I”m planning on it, Mr. Stortz!" We both laughed.

Later that afternoon we had some extra recess time. I saw a girl named Maddie relaxing in the shade. After spending a school year with her in my class, I can tell you this girl is smart, funny, and beautiful. Of course her nose was in a book too. I started to walk over to tell her I thought it was cool that she was reading during recess.

As I walked, I noticed Sam on the soccer field. He gave me a little wave. I couldn’t help but think of him and Maddie, and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. Maybe the world will be okay after all.

Photo Credit: Josh Puetz

Hearts and Seasons

“Can you be happy and sad at the same time, Mr. Stortz?”

The last day of school is almost here. It’s become routine for me. But it hasn’t become any easier.

I’ve given so much of myself to my students over the last nine months. I’ve laughed with them. I’ve cried with them. I’ve celebrated with them, and I’ve lost my patience with them. Day in; day out. Week after week for almost an entire year. Then it lurches to a sudden and grinding halt.

Seasons

As teachers, kids come and go in our lives like a revolving door. I’m about to finish my tenth year in education, so the door has been revolving for a while.

I’ve had the honor to teach about 300 students. Some come and and go like an easy breeze across a sandy beach. Some I miss. Some not as much. Some kids are quiet, and I don’t get to know them as well.

Others sink their hooks in deeply. Those are kids we’ll never forget. Those are the kids that not only enter our lives for a season, but touch our hearts for a lifetime. I’ve had a handful of students like that. I was fortunate to have one this year.

”I don’t really like to read, Mr. Stortz.”

That was one of the first conversations I had with her. Most kids don’t say things like that, and definitely not the kids that actually don’t like reading. Those kids tend to keep quiet and try to stay undetected. Telling me she didn’t like to read was like announcing a challenge. I interpreted it as “Help me find a book I’ll love!” I knew right away she was going to be something special.

She and I found several great books over the year. I got to hear her say “I love this book!” many times. Seeing her joyful turnaround was one of the best rewards I could receive.

She went from being below grade level in reading to being a full grade level above by the end of the year. She made the most growth of any student I had. But it’s not really about her reading skills.

Hearts

So much of teaching is about the relationships we forge with our students. That’s what I’m passionate about. Great teaching happens in the context of great relationships.

She is an amazing girl. Her infectious smile brought joy to my heart each day. She was a rock of responsibility. I could always count on her. Her kind heart and wonderful attitude were felt by everyone in class. She was the eye of the storm on the toughest days.

She is smart, creative, and funny. Any teacher will be blessed to have her next year. She helped me be not only a better teacher, but a better person.

I received a handmade card from her today. It absolutely melted my heart. As I read over her words, I realized just how much I was going to miss her.

”Can you come to 5th grade with us, Mr. Stortz?”

The bittersweet taste of the last day of school hangs heavily in the air. There’s excitement on some faces. But teary eyes betray the smiles of more than a few.

The music of this year is fading. The laughter is turning into echoes, and the voices are growing distant. I’ll close the blinds and turn off the lights one last time. And I’ll count myself blessed for being able to teach and learn from this very special girl.

Although she will only be in my life for a season, she has touched my heart for a lifetime.

On Purpose, For a Purpose

God brings you every student on purpose, for His purpose.

I try to make this my prayer during the days before each school year starts. Frustration has been getting the better of me lately. I've been slipping with it.

Teaching is not just a 9-5 gig for me. It's an extension of who I am. It taps into my very core as a person. On my best days, I truly feel I'm doing the work God has put before me. I need to remember it on my worst days too.

I don't believe in coincidences. The sovereign God of the universe isn't going to leave something as important as a class roster up to chance. My students are with me this year for a reason. Each one of those kids that crosses my classroom doorway is there on purpose for a purpose.

It's time I start acting like it again.

Disappointment and the Bee

“How many words can we miss before we’re out, Mr. Stortz?”
“One.”
“One?!?!”

I cracked the cap of a well-worn hi-lighter. Pushing the dulled neon tip across the first word on the list, I felt that familiar anxiousness as we began.

Bee day. I have to confess, word nerd that I am, that I always dread it a little. Today was our class spelling bee. We have to pick winners from our classes to participate in the school-wide spelling bee next month.

But the whole thing is just a tough nut. I remind the class that only a few people will win today. Losing is a part of life. A hard part of life. Disappointment will linger long past the time you’ve asked it to leave. The thing is, everyone thinks they’re going to win.

Round one ends. Only six kids remain. Two kids are already crying. A tough nut, indeed.

One of the sweetest (and brightest) girls I’ve ever taught missed her first word. She really wanted to win. And she most definitely could have. But she didn’t. She missed her word by one lousy letter. Her wide-eyed smile faded as quickly as her shoulders slumped. Tears began to well up along the rims of her eyes. She became visibly upset and couldn’t hold back her tears. I told her we could talk in the hallway after the spelling bee was over. Definitely a tough nut.

Ten minutes later we were talking out in the hall. Her crying had eased a bit. She told me how upset she was with herself. The more I listened, the more I could feel her frustration. I pulled her close and put my arm around her as we spoke. I told her that disappointment is okay to feel- just don’t let it consume you. I reminded her of all her accomplishments this year, and told her how everyone still cared about her. She went down to the restroom to wash off her face. I think she was feeling a little better, although I’m not sure I was.

A little later, she trotted over to ask me a question about the novel she is reading. Her eyes were wide and her smile was sweet once more. Disappointment is certainly a tough nut, but one that must be cracked.

I’m Not Interested in My Students' Happiness

Sure, I want my students to be happy people. I absolutely want them to enjoy happiness in their lives. I don't have a heart of stone. But, I am much more interested in their learning.

I had to have a heart-to-heart with a group of kids who were becoming increasingly disrespectful and whiny. Most people who work with me know I am sort of Zen, hippy, California incense with my classroom environment. I try to keep things calm and low-key. I put as much autonomy and responsibility on the students as I can. But I certainly have limits. Especially when allotted freedoms encroach on the learning of others.

This group of kids had body slammed those limits one too many times. Things needed to change. During our private conversation, many students seemed genuinely shocked. Stuttered gasps of "You don't care about our happiness?" abounded. I had to explain that I didn't care about their happiness as much as I cared about their learning.

Of course I wanted them to be be happy. At school, however, I wanted them to learn more than be happy. I had to reiterate that this school business is hard work. It's not always rainbows and lollipops. Well, sometimes it's rainbows. Never lollipops with our new nutritional guidelines though.

I'm the responsible adult

The simple fact is that I'm the responsible adult in the room. I know what's best for my students in many situations. I know Tony can't sit next to Kevin ~~90%~~ 99% of the time. I know Tina doesn't need to share every single thought that pops into her head every time she raises her hand. I know that Kendra can wait five more minutes to use the restroom.

I'm not mean about it. Just firm. Some of them are starting to come around. Who knows? With a little more time, a few may actually see the benefits and be happy about it.

I Know What Books My Students Are Reading

No one ever asks me what books my students are reading. Admins want to know about test scores or grades. I understand. Kind of. Maybe that's why I'd make a terrible principal. I don't usually know that stuff off the top of my head. I also probably put less stock in it than I should.

Students are people. I try to treat them as people instead of numbers and plot points. When I'm at the library or bookstore, I see books that remind me of students. I don't see books that remind of .xls files and report cards. Books remind me of students because I think they would like to read them, not because books will help their screen time in front of our reading intervention app.

Do you know what books your students are reading? Maybe I need to start asking more of that.

A Need for Vision

Where there is no vision, the people cast of restraint...

-Proverbs 29:18

I heard this simple proverb in church yesterday. It got itself lodged in my mind like a Milk Dud in a back molar. I've been thinking about these words and how we need them at school too. I realize that this is not an exact application of this verse, but the idea is sound.

"Where there is no vision"

Gag. Vision is such an overused, butthead word in much of today's parlance. Yet it still remains a true need. Who has the vision in your classroom? Who is responsible for spreading it?

This responsibility falls square on the shoulders of teachers. Students need to see the big picture of how school is helping their lives. They need to be reminded that the little day-to-day things in the classroom are playing a larger role. Students need to see themselves in a future tense end product, as well as a present tense work in progress.

I'm not sure if I have been effectively communicating a clear vision to my classes lately. I'm loathe to tell them, "You'll need this for 5th grade." I do say things like "This will help you be a better reader or writer." But some kids need much more detail than that.

"the people cast off restraint"

The people are our students. One possible reason for apathy or misbehavior could be a lack of vision. Many students are not going to get a vision on their own. They need you to show them how their work plays in to a larger project or adds to a growing skill set they will need for life.

The next time a student is off task, I need to ask myself a question. Does this kid have a vision for how this is going to help him? Maybe he does. Or, maybe he just feels like ripping up the carpet.

How is what we are teaching our students fitting into their lives now and in the future? There could be some scary answers to that question.

My Big Fat Secret For Teaching Writing

"Don't know what you are doing, but my daughter went from not liking writing to it being her favorite subject this year!"
A parent left this comment on my class Facebook page last week. I shared it the other day on Twitter. It's important to share victories and successes. It gives me confidence and encouragement to move forward when I read about others doing well.
I got several replies filled with encouragement and good cheer. A few Twitter peeps wanted to know what my secret is. I sort of half-heartedly answered a few and moved on with my day. But, it got me thinking. Do I really do have some sort of secret for teaching writing?
So I thought for bit, and I came back to my original half-hearted response. Only it didn't seem so half-hearted anymore. Do you want to know my big, fat secret for teaching kids to write better? My big, fat secret is...
I just really love it. In a word, passion.
It sounds simple, and I guess it is. But it's also true. I just really, really love teaching kids to write better. I'm drawn to stories and words. I relish the opportunities that I get to write. I love the craft of it; the creativity that drives it. It's an escape. It's more than an escape. It's an escape that you get to create in any way you want. Writing is therapy. Writing is a release. Writing is a way to cope and a way to make sense of our world.
I try to share that passion with my young writers each day. Whether we are writing in our journals, blogging, or doing some sort of creative writing, I give them as much enthusiasm as I can muster.
I wish I had “7 Keys to Make Kids LOVE Writing!” or “10 Easy Steps to Be An AWESOME Writing Teacher!” to share. But I don't. It's just me. A tall guy with a fuzzy beard, thick glasses and a heart for kids. I simply let my passion for writing spill all over the place and hope my students get soaked.

Compliance Was Not Worth the Price of Admission

I lost it. I lost my cool today. I didn't yell. I didn't raise my voice. I did something much worse. I insulted a student.

I'm not one to lose my cool at school. I’m sad to say that usually happens when I get home. Today was different. I had a rough morning getting my kids up and ready. My school computer was acting up. And several students were shouting things across the classroom during the morning announcements. That shouting was the last straw.

I went over and stood between the two shouting girls' tables. I should've made eye contact and pressed my index finger against my lips. I should've looked at them with the teacher eye and slowly moved my head back and forth. I should've whispered, "No talking during announcements." I should've. But I didn't.

Instead, I went for the easy kill. I did something that would make me feel good for about half a second and terrible for the rest of the day. I used my tongue as a weapon. I insulted two nine-year-old girls. I said something to the effect of, "Did you release your brain into the wild this weekend? Why are you shouting during the announcements?" Wow. It's even worse when I type the words out. Way to go, teacher of the year…

I called the girls over to my desk when the announcements were over. In earshot of the class, I apologized to my students. I told them that I was very sorry for saying that to them. They should not have been hollering, but I should have handled that much better.

One girl said, "That's okay, Mr. Stortz. We'll do better tomorrow." The other girl looked at me for a moment. For the first time I noticed tears pooling near the bottom of her red-rimmed eyes. Her eyes met mine. She nodded and went back to her seat as she wiped her tears with the back of her hand. I wanted to crawl into the bottom of my file cabinet and hide until lunch. Then I wanted to crawl into my lunch bag and hide until tomorrow. I’ve rarely felt worse in my years of teaching.

Well, I got what I wanted- silence during the announcements. But at what price? Their compliance was not worth the price of admission. I took out a huge withdrawal from those girls today. It's going to take a while to get us back to ground zero. If I truly believe that great learning happens in the context of great relationships, then I've got some work to do on these relationships. I'd better get started.

“Death and life are in the power of the tongue,
and those who love it will eat its fruits.”
-Proverbs 18:21

A Palpable Closure

Rituals are important. I need more of them.

The last days of school are pouring over with emotions. Joy pervades the perpetual ten-year-old in me. I know that glint of summer in my students' eyes. I have it too. I stifle the feelings of regret. The idealistic teacher in me is forever wishing I did more. Failures stick out more right now than successes. Anxiety creeps in here and there as I think about my to-do list. There's so many things to do before I leave for summer break. Then, of course, there is the sadness.

I love my students. It's always a little hard to see them go. We've shared our lives together for almost ten months. I don't do well with change. I know some students don't either. I feel their pain. It's a big deal to unhook and shift into summertime. This is where rituals come in.

The Writing in the Journals

We journaled in class. A lot. Every morning without fail for the last two weeks of school, in fact. I'm a big believer in journal writing. There is something so cleansing and purifying about it. I fought to keep our schedule as predictable as possible. Sure, we had some unexpected things pop up for the last week, but we always journaled. I challenged the students to write at least a full page every day. It was probably the only thing we did daily. It was our anchor in many ways.

The Passing Out of the Sticks

I've just completed my seventh year of teaching. One of the things I do every year is make a cup of popsicle sticks with each of my students' names on them. It's old -school for sure, but comforting. As I pass the sticks out to the students, they're always amazed. "You mean we really get to keep them?" The ritual of the passing out the sticks is when I realize that it's going to be over soon. It's symbolic in many ways. The sticks are mine all year. They are my tool and under my control. They are my students. Now it's time to let that go; to let them go. Passing out the sticks is a metaphor for release. I've taught them all year that they are responsible for their own learning. Now it's their turn.

The Breaking Down of the Room

The students always get to help me break down the room. I save this for the next-to-the-last day of school. There is furniture to label, shelves to clean, and books to organize. The room has been our shared space. It's the silent partner in our learning community and now it’s time to shut down shop.

The Class Meeting

We save our final class meeting for the last day. We all reminisce about our best times of the year. There are usually tears. Sometimes the kids cry too.

The Taking Down of the Papers

The last ritual might be the most meaningful for me. I save the cabinet doors in my room for all of the notes and pictures that students make for me. It's another one of those things I've done every year. It's an instant pick me up to see all those loving pieces of paper. They stay up all year, and they are the very last things I take down. I have a special spot in my filing cabinet where I keep most of them. I take them all down, one at a time, making sure to fold back the pieces of Scotch tape before they go into my file. The stickiness of the tape gives me hope that many of the things I've talked about will stick with my students. I always play a song while I'm taking down the papers. We listen to lots of music. I teach with it, we write with it, we relax with it. There is usually a song that resonates with me during the year. This lovely song was my soundtrack for the taking down of the papers this time. I look at each paper and think of the face behind the it. These students are no longer mine. But, they never really were to begin with.

This is closure. Palpable closure.

On Appreciations, Writing, and Scratchy Noises

Appreciation is a deeply powerful word to me. “Appreciate” is the mature Dr. Pepper to “thank you’s” bland Mr. Pibb. No, restaurant worker guy, Mr. Pibb is not okay.

Teachers are being appreciated all over the country this week. It’s a fun time to be a teacher. I got a few packs of gum, packs of pens for the class, gift cards to Half Price Books, and more Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups than I know what to do with. Like I said, it’s a fun time and it's nice to get some thank yous.

However, the things that truly make me feel appreciated don’t come in orange and yellow wrappers. They are the notes and cards that students write to me. The Reese's are gone in a few days, but these words stay with me forever.

Here’s one of my favorites:

"Mr.Stortz has been teaching us about this technique called the clicking noise, or the scratchy noise if you are writing on paper. The technique implies just to start going. Start pressing keys and just get into your work. This was a very helpful technique for me because I use to just sit there thinking about what I was going to say word for word in my head, but never writing it. My brain would say “That’s Stupid.” or “That doesn’t make sense.” But he has taught us to not listen to that voice. Just put your pen on the paper or your fingers on the keys and let the words flow out.

Mr.Stortz to me is more than just a writing teacher. He is my friend, someone I can trust, someone I can believe, and that is really important to me. The reason is I get in trouble a lot. So I need a teacher that can put those troubles aside and worry about school and not how I got sent to the principal’s office. I appreciate that he wants the best for me and pushes me to do my best, and has taught me that when I do my best it all pays off.

I was so happy to figure out that Mr.Stortz was my teacher. And then I figured out what I was really getting. Not only a teacher who teaches to the art of language, but one who teaches life skills. It is very uncommon to get a teacher who teaches both sides of life. And I am truly blessed to have a teacher like Mr.Stortz. If you have a teacher like Mr.Stortz, then you know what I’m feeling. I am extremely thankful for him. And I bet you are thankful if you have been blessed with such a teacher like me."

Tears welled up in my eyes as I read this. Appreciation. This will keep me going for a long time.

The Definition of Inauthentic

Fortunate

My school was fortunate to be selected by our state to field test their latest standardized weapon of mass instruction. Fortunate. You know, like when you step in gum, and you're fortunate that your errands are over and you're on the way home. Fortunate.

We just had our state writing test a month ago, and have our state math and reading tests in a few weeks. Now we get to field test next year's writing test. More scantron bubbles; more prompts. We're fortunate. I'm not sure the kids thought so.

Groans and moans filled the room when I announced our good fortune. Groans and moans about the test, and groans and moans about writing. I understand the first, but the second broke my heart.

The Test

"The test is practice,” I told them. “You're just test driving it to see what needs to be adjusted for next year. We'll send them off and never see them again.” “Don't stress," I said. "It's not even graded."

Of course a kid asks, "Then do we even need to try?" That's what happens when kids are graded. They quickly figure out what really needs their attention. A few other students echo the sentiment.

"What do you think?" I threw it back on the student. Another student chimed in and said, "We should always try our best on everything we do."

Then, silence. I let those words settle to the ground like dirt kicked up on a playground soccer game. I didn't know what to say. It's kind of a cross roads question. I feel like the field test is a waste of time, but I think each student needs to make up their own mind about it.

The Day Of

One girl is fed up. She said she did not want to take the test. I'm secretly proud of her, but I can't tell her that. At least not now. Kids should have some say in their education, right? A short talk with the AP and she was off to work. I wonder what that conversation was about.

One boy was excited about his written composition. He liked his prompt, and he's writing something he cares about. He asked, "Can I copy this on to notebook paper when I'm finished? I want to keep my story."

His expectant eyes made my heart sink. I knew the answer I had to tell him. "I'm sorry, buddy. I can't let you have any extra paper during the test."

He raised his hand thirty minutes later. With confidence he said, "I'm finished with the test, but I'm going to sit with it for a while. I want to memorize my story so I can write it again when I get home." I just nodded my head. The response I wanted to give was not on the approved phrases list that I carry around on my testing clipboard.

Inauthenticity

This is the definition of inauthentic writing. The student doesn't own it- literally or figuratively. Tests like this are why kids hate writing. Writing like this is why I hate testing.

Stripped Learning

Cue the Imperial Death March…

Testing day. It’s finally here. For the last week, my class has been going through labor pains as we prepare for the inevitable day of our state writing test.

We are in our room this morning, but it’s different. The whiteboard is blank, The SMART Board and computers are off. Our learning artifacts on the walls have all been removed or covered by dull butcher paper. The fluorescent lights are fully on. The desks are all in rows facing the front. It’s still our classroom, but it’s different. It’s been stripped. Not only physically stripped, but stripped of its dignity.

Why the formality? Why the radical transformation? This environment is not how I teach the students, so why must it be how I assess them?

I caught myself a few times lately saying things like, “When this is over, we can get back to real writing.” The state test is, unfortunately, real. It’s just not authentic. It’s easy to forget the difference.

* * *

I paced the room, both anxious and confident, as I actively monitored the students. I knew many of them were fighting the feeling of being trapped and constrained, just like I was. Some students sped through, and others took their time. But, in the end, I’m not completely sure it mattered. The hour hand took six trips around the clock, and it was all over. The fear, anxiety, and tears came to a close.

Each of my students will now get a number- one number assigned to their learning. This number is assigned from one day out of their lives. It reduces their learning down to a quantifiable digit. This number strips their learning. It strips it of context and authenticity. Their learning is stripped of its significance. There’s a word- significance. Where does that fit into bubble sheets and scripted prompts?

In our race to the top, there’s pressure to quantify as much as possible, whether that number represents significance or not. But, we must never forget that there is a face behind that number. It’s a face of significance.

"It Just Hurts." -The Pain Kids Hide

"There's a dog on the playground, Mr. Stortz!" Several frantic girls were screaming and rushed over to me at recess today. This usually happens a few times a year. I looked around and didn't see anything. The girls pointed to the other end of the soccer field where a man was letting kids pet his dog through the bars of our black iron fence. This was definitely a no -no.

As I walked over to put a stop to this unauthorized dog petting, a soccer ball whizzed by the back of my head. I had forgotten how lively the soccer field could be. The man had already walked off by the time I reached the scene. I cautioned the students about petting strange dogs and reminded them to be safe.

I began walking back to my area when I heard the tiny yelp of ten year old girl. I turned around to see one of my students hunched over and rubbing her shin. She had just been pelted with a soccer ball. I asked her if she was all right. She winced, but assured me that she fine. She's a tough girl. I'm sure it hurt, but I knew she would be okay.

Fast -forward ten minutes. My patrol took me towards the side doors of the school. I walked past one of the squared brick columns and found the girl who had been hit by the soccer ball earlier. She was sitting with her back against the rough brick, arms wrapped around her legs and her chin resting on her knees. Her eyes were red and a little puffy.

I asked if she was okay. She sniffed and gave me a few short nods. A little girl in tears is practically my Bat -Signal for shifting into dad mode. I looked at her again and asked if she was sure. Tears began flowing as she mumbled, "It just hurts." She could no longer hide the pain. Immediately, I knelt down and rubbed her shoulder. I asked if she would show me her leg. It seemed fine. I assured her that things would be all right; just to give it a little time.

* * *

I thought about those words today- "It just hurts." I wonder how many students in my class are hurting? Not from soccer balls, but from much deeper pain. How many children are going through divorce, hunger, abuse, neglect, or bullying? How many kids are hurting and trying to hide it? How many students are trying to be tough and not show their pain?

That pain is where I need to begin with some students. What can I do? Where can I help? I don't want them to hurt, and I certainly don't want them to be hurting and hide it.

"It just hurts."

Maybe learning when to use a comma before a conjunction isn't so important.

Photo credit: Rachel Ford James

Don't You Love It When They Come Back?

One of my favorite things is when former students come back to see me. I love when they come and find me during their inside recess, or come to ask me questions when they are working on a project. I even like it when they stop me for a 30 second conversation in the hall.

Most of the students I've taught are still at the same school with me, so I get the luxury of seeing some of them frequently. A girl I taught last year, whom I absolutely adore, stopped by during my planning period. She needed some help making a video for her math class. I took 20 minutes out of my day and had a blast filming a fraction commercial with her. It was an unexpected surprise that totally made my day.

In my short time as a teacher, I seldom find that students come back to me because they are excited about the things I taught them. In fact, I've never had a student come back and tell me "Hey Mr. Stortz, thanks for showing me how adverbial phrases relate to dependent clauses!" Most are rarely impressed at my knowledge of books, or my abilities with a computer. Many do not remember the famous quotes I recite or the lessons I lay out. They don't remember my disheveled desk, or that my lesson plans are not impeccable.

What they do remember is the way that I treated them. The more I teach, the more I am convinced that the most valuable gift I can give to my students is not an education. It is not motivation, success, or even inspiration. The most valuable gift I can give to them is love and acceptance as a human being.

I like to think that my students come back because they know that I love and accept them as people. Learning flourishes in the context of love and acceptance. As soon as I stop loving, I stop teaching.

I hope they never stop coming back.

I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.

-Maya Angelou

What I Made Today

I made some kids laugh today. My voice can get kind of high -pitched and silly when I imitate fictional teachers from "back when I was in school." I guess 10 year olds think I'm funny. I don't know what that says about me or my humor.

I made some kids believe me today, even though I lied. I told them that they were a little too old to be making farting noises in the cafeteria. But, the truth is, they're not. I still make farting noises. And I still think it's funny. I had to turn my face so I wouldn't laugh when I was talking to them.

I made some kids wonder today. We talked about holidays and traditions in other parts of the world. It's hard for a 4th grader to think about that kind of stuff. Some kids researched answers for genuine questions they had about other cultures.

I made a kid cry today. She forged her mom's signature on a permission slip in the most forced, grown -up looking cursive she could come up with. About three excuses in, she finally broke down in tears and told me what she really did. I gave her a hug and told her I was not mad, just disappointed.

It was a typical day of making for me. I make lots of things for my students everyday. I can make kids laugh or cry. I can make them question and wonder. I can make them feel shame or pride. On my best days, I can make them feel like like they are capable of doing anything they can imagine. But, the one thing I can never make for them is their own learning. Despite my role as a teacher, I can never make learning for anyone. It's one of the great paradoxes of teaching.

Learning is making on a personal level. Learning has to be made from within. And that kind of making is always up to them.