Staying Flexible: Preparing for School at 6:30 AM on a Sunday

My internal clock doesn't ever allow me to sleep in except when I'm sick, or frankly, recovering from surgery.  Thanksgiving Break?  Up at 5:15 AM.  Winter Break?  Same.  Spring Break?  Still an early bird.  Summer?  A cruel irony: I sleep in by about an hour, max, two or three days before autumn PD starts up again, I kid you not.  So it's not at all unusual that I am up, drinking coffee, eating a breakfast sandwich, and being productive at six-thirty this morning.  What has changed is that I'm not crocheting while catching up on DVRd shows, or reading, or participating in a Twitter chat, or throwing a breakfast casserole into the oven.  I've been navigating some work emails and have been updating instructional materials because the week I planned for has been altered quite a bit.  

"Stay flexible" continues to be my professional mantra, carrying over from 2020.  I volunteered to be a remote learning teacher last fall, and am one of those weird teachers who has actually looked forward to and even enjoyed creating a new learning and teaching environment. I've shifted from trying to make my Zoom and digital experiences "just like" on-site or "real" school (with all of the restrictions that on-site students and teachers have to adapt to, why would I wish any of that upon my class?) and to put it bluntly, my body greatly appreciates having multiple breaks scheduled throughout my day.  That's right, I have five, count them, F-I-V-E intermissions where I can and do use the restroom, e-v-e-r-y day.  In twenty-plus years of teaching, this is the most accommodated my bladder has ever been. 

Unlike past teaching years, my class size can accordion greatly.  I began with twelve of my own "permanent" remote learning students in the fall. Families chose my class because they intended to have their kindergarteners learn safely from home for at least the first semester of school.  Two transferred to on-site learning after parents who had lost their jobs during the spring and summer gained employment ("If I don't take this job and move _______ back to school in-person, we won't have Christmas or be able to pay other bills.") while recently another parent working the night-shift couldn't support his kindergartener's daily Zoom and activity schedule.  As a remote learning kindergarten teacher (I have a grade level partner) I host students who test positive and must isolate or who have a family member who has tested positive and must therefore quarantine for up to two weeks. My class size has grown by one, two, three, six, and last week, by sixteen students overnight. Yes, sixteen. Stay flexible.

SHIKHEI GOH—GETTY IMAGES

Though my entire district moved to remote learning right after Thanksgiving Break, on-site classes begin again tomorrow.  Last Thursday and Friday, district students, their families, and teachers and their families were offered the opportunity to be tested for COVID, and as anyone could have guessed, I've already added at least one new student to my roster.  Should a kindergarten teacher in the district have to quarantine in the future, however, and with an extreme shortage of substitute teachers, there's a chance I could yet again, take on another entire class in addition to my own.

This week all of our middle-of-the-year mandated assessments begin.  Will I be screening ten, eleven, or twenty-five students for dyslexia and STAR Reading, or administering curriculum-based measures for math to children who I have not yet met nor even had the time to build a rapport? I'm also having to take Friday off to accompany my husband to his dental surgery, so I'll need to prepare for a guest teacher who has yet to be assigned since my original sub just received a positive COVID test for a family member. 

You know, even flexible tools like pipe cleaners and wikki stix break apart after being bent one too many times. At what point must others release their grip from the mindset of "we-have-to-make-this-year-as-normal-as-every-other-year-because-we-refuse-to-envision-education-in-any-other-way?" Often our ability to effectively apply self-care relies heavily upon the responsibilities thrust upon us even during our hours away from work. Here's hoping that this latest surge doesn't last long and that I can reclaim some of my time for myself and my family, and that my colleagues and their families can do the same. 

#TeachingInTheTimeOfCOVID

#BloggingIsSelfCareForMe  

Pedagogy in Crisis: Goodbye Art Cart, Goodbye Dramatic Play, Goodbye Puppets

Today was the first day of my twenty-fifth year in the classroom.

I wore my mask on my face and a button with my face on it.  Upon admittance to the building and my classroom, I found tables and desks set up spaced six feet apart with all of the other furniture pushed against the walls and stacked upon cabinetry. After early morning PD, I was sent back to the room (will I be teaching here in a month, or stationed elsewhere as a remote learning instructor? Who knows.), ate lunch, and then started my assignment: determine what remaining furniture, if any, could still be used, and remove all of my own personal belongings and all cloth items from the room.  Furniture to be stored had to be labeled and put in a central location within the classroom so it wouldn't clog up the hallway.

I might have been able to maintain some semblance of stoicism for the remainder of the afternoon, but a dear friend walked into my room, and it was all I could do to not sob. After drying some tears (crying and having one's nose run behind a mask is NOT an ideal situation), I pushed through to problem-solving mode: what do I need to keep? What must I send to storage?  What must I take home? How can I provide visual cues to students (who I may or may not have in-person) so they know where to keep their very moveable individual desks (one solution would be Sit Spots on the floor, one marking the upper right desk leg and the other marking the lower-left desk leg) as we attempt to maintain social distancing requirements?

But being the first day of my twenty-fifth year of teaching, I recognized that I am being required to do exactly what I have fought doing for my entire career: I must work against my students' very nature, coach and praise them against how they learn best, and constantly redirect them from their very selves.  And if I manage to do it "successfully," I know that there are other teachers and possibly even administrators who would find the arrangement of kindergarten students sitting face-forward in straight rows for seven hours each day at desks ideal, even desirable post-pandemic.  I'm experiencing a pedagogical crisis.

Here is the furniture to be removed:

Goodbye art cart.  Goodbye alphabet rug.

Goodbye Dramatic Play/"House" Center.

Goodbye lightbox, Lego table, and painting easel.

Goodbye reading table.  Goodbye Play-Doh table, and math table, and writing center table.

Goodbye discovery table with the roadway on one side of the flippable topper and a farm scene on the other.

The wooden barn and dollhouse will sit high atop the upper cabinetry, stored, but not out of sight.  Students will wonder why they are there, and why they are out of reach.  If I'm not reassigned, my class set of scoop seats will join the barn and dollhouse.  So will whatever extras might fit that we won't be allowed to use... but students will see them.  And wonder.

As for the personal belongings that I have to bring home, here's the first load:

Kindergarten will have no resting mats.  

No storytime chair. No mini couch or chairs. 

No shopping cart. No puppets, no apple basket tree to hold them.  

No stuffed animals to "buddy read" to. 

No balance beam.  No stepping stones.  No sensory bin.

No side table for plants or book displays.  

No rolling cart for lunch box and snack bag collection. 

Kindergarten not being kindergarten is supposed to pass as a solution this year, but a developmentally inappropriate learning environment will never be the correct answer. 

I am grieving. 

My First Rant of the 2016-2017 School Year: I'm GOING There

With August giving way to September, I am happy to report that this year's class of Super Stars and I have had a great start to kindergarten!  We've introduced ourselves, shared, learned and practiced rules and routines, have helped, asked questions, apologized, forgiven, laughed, and even outright guffawed with one another.  After twenty-plus years as a teacher (I took two years off to stay home with my youngest, otherwise this would have been year twenty-three), I too, can honestly say that it has been a fresh start with fresh faces and families.  It might be silly sounding, but adopting the current vernacular, I "puffy-heart" love them all.  

(clip art found here)

Learning styles, needs, strengths and interests haven't changed much over my near quarter-of-a-century career.  Young children still learn best when offered a myriad of tools, songs, stories, and experiences, finger paint and iPads, Blueberries for Sal and Pete the Cat, play dough and teddy bear counters... the more the merrier, with all sorts of growth and mastery occurring in good measure.  Large group, small group, and one-on-one with the teacher, students experience a lot of interaction with their friends, new classmates, teachers, staff and volunteers.  I too, have learned and grown with each and every class.  My advocacy of my Super Stars remains both professional and personal.  I teach them, guide them, support them, and protect them.  Teaching kindergarten for two decades has rocked- it still rocks.

Though students haven't changed much over time, parents certainly have.  Twenty years ago, it was a rare occurrence indeed when I'd have to make a report to Child Protective Services, or teach a parent how best to help their child develop the social, fine motor, behavioral and academic skills necessary to soar at school and life.  Parents were my natural allies, answering the phone when I'd call, attending every conference, replying to my notes, and offering helping hands without (many) hidden agendas.  Only one brought a gun with her to a parent conference, and most parents, colleagues and neighbors agreed that she was crazy.  Over the course of the evolution of education's latest "reform" however, notably beginning with No Child Left Behind and including the mass adoption of technology use in every day life, I've witnessed an uncomfortable shift in parenting, resulting in mothers and fathers eyeing teachers and schools with suspicion first, voicing accusations loudly second, and rarely, if ever offering an appropriate apology when common sense solutions have been reached after much patience on the teacher's part. 

Oh yes, though I truly puffy-heart-love my students and families, I'm going to go there. Other teacher bloggers have expressed similar sentiments, like this well shared post from 2014, but I haven't yet stumbled across an editorial article or blog asking parents if they truly believe that their children are only ever victims during their years within a school's walls, as knee-jerk and frankly, sometimes assaultive parental behavior suggests.  Parents' emails or phone calls to teachers demanding immediate action, threatening a visit to an administrator, or the surprise arrival of a parent simply marching him or herself into the principal's office without any prior notice or attempt at communication with a teacher, occur much more frequently now than they did when I was new to the profession.  Because my career and students have mattered to me, past parental complaints have immediately caused me to ask myself the tough questions:  did I make a mistake?  Did I miss something?  Could I have solved this problem differently?  When faced with parents who employ the sneak attack as their preferred modus operandi, my first response (after shock) for years has been to immediately offer an apology and time to meet to discuss the it's-news-to-me issue.  That's right: I've given parents the benefit of the doubt, and assumed I've made a mistake, miscommunicated, or somehow missed something occurring in my classroom. 

That reaction, now that I'm forty-six years old, have raised three children, taught in three states, in four schools, over twenty one years, and can count my Super Star students and their families in the hundreds, is going to stop.  Instead of half-stories, half-truths, misinterpretations, outright lies or Drama Debbies and Dons pushing me to self-defense, self doubt, or whatever-you-do-just-make-the-parents-happy apology and appeal mode, I'm going to take a deep, cleansing breath, count to three, and then jump right into professionally standing my ground. The child who appeared to enjoy the day, mentioning a small tummy ache right before lunch, and after having eaten bounced through our activities with a smile on her face throughout the rest of the afternoon?  No Ma'am, I didn't ignore her, deprive her of food, force her to eat food, or cough germs onto her food, even though she's now complaining to you at home that her tummy hurts.  The parent who interrogates and escalates his child with questions like "Did you tell Mrs. Sommerville?  And what did Mrs. Sommerville do?  Why didn't Mrs. Sommerville call me? OH MY GOODNESS, YOU MEAN YOU TOLD MRS. SOMMERVILLE AND SHE JUST IGNORED YOU?!?!?!?!?" I'm going to let him know that there's a slight chance that 1) he's not getting the whole picture and 2) I'd be happy to talk with him calmly and respectfully to solve the problem. When a learning disabled classmate is overly-attentive to another child out of admiration and a hope for friendship, and is perhaps awkwardly stumbling through the process of friend-making, I'm going to tell an accusatory parent that her child is not being targeted, bullied, harassed, or stalked.  When a child's responses to unexpected interactions with peers include scowling, screeching, yelling, hitting, flouncing off, sitting and crying, NOT using his or her words, or simply waiting to tell a parent at home, I'm going to tell Mom and Dad that their child too likely needs to learn, see modeled, and practice some social skills strategies in order to self-advocate.  I'm not going to agree that little Bobby or little Sarah be moved to a different class because little Charlene doesn't like him or her.  No pandering or schmoozing choreography, even though those parents want it.  When they approach me with verbal guns a blazin', they're going to be met with Mrs. Sommerville in all of my teacher glory.  It's the Golden Rule folks, and it's time you followed it. 

But I simply must ask... shock and awe videos, social media memes, and urban legends aside, do you believe that teachers spend our days sitting in classrooms, twiddling our thumbs, taunting, ignoring, harassing, belittling, neglecting, and abusing your children?  As I read Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See at the carpet, do you honestly believe that I wouldn't see shenanigans if they were occurring, and upon seeing them, wouldn't intervene to stop them to get students back on track?  When little Jon accidentally trips little Maisie, don't you think I pause to notice whether or not he apologizes?  Did you know that if he does apologize, and Maisie accepts it, I consider the problem solved, and won't report it to you?  If either Maisie or Jon mentions it to their parents, I certainly hope both families will respond with something along the lines of "Oh good.  Accidents happen, but I'm glad you apologized and were more careful," instead of calling the school and demanding the immediate expulsion of little Jon and an administrative reprimand of me by my principal.  Common sense is always preferable to overkill.

And because I'm truly curious, here are some more questions I have for parents: who on earth told families that my colleagues and I don't care about our students, that we didn't choose this profession as our lifelong career, that our paychecks aren't a necessity, and that we only seek to undermine families, parental authority and involvement, intending to harm our students in any way possible for the sheer entertainment of it?  Who told you that the parent/teacher/school relationship is a one way street, and that your only responsibilities are to police the employees and loudly beat your chest from time to time to show us who's boss?  If you're so concerned about the allocation of resources for your child and his classmates, or think lower student to teacher ratios would benefit all children, why don't you regularly attend school board meetings, familiarize yourself with Department of Education policies, or advocate for increased funding for education?  Why do you refuse to trust teachers until after the school year is over, and you've put them through the wringer?  Why don't you apologize for the mistakes you make as readily as you demand we do?  Would you ever allow anyone, to include your spouse or significant other, to micro-manage, accuse, and disrespect you in the ways that you feel entitled and justified to do to us?  Who told you that good parenting was going from attentive to alarmed in 5.2 seconds, and from involved to subversive and accusatory in less time than that? 

As a teacher, I make mistakes, but not often.  Twenty-one years, three children, and lots of experience works in my favor that way.  My students' favor.  Their families' favor. 

Yes, authentic bullying can happen at school, even in kindergarten.  As a person who experienced my fair share of bullies as a child and an adult, and as an educated professional who doesn't see a benefit to bullying, I stop it when I see it, I investigate it when I hear of it, and I advocate against it.  A child upset because the classmate who played with her yesterday doesn't want to play with her today is not being bullied or neglected, even if those crocodile tears pull insistently at her parent's apron strings.  A parent who tells herself "I'll go above the teacher's head and straight to the principal to demand that this be handled NOW" is not a partner in her child's education.  She's a bully, a blowhard, and likely a chicken.  That's right: if a parent won't speak with me, I don't assume s/he is the authority, I assume s/he's afraid.  I'm polite, and I'm certainly professional.  I do what I can to build relationships with families for the benefit of my students,  but I'm not bowled over, frightened, or put in my place when a parent tries their alpha-commando schtick on me.  I'm experienced, qualified, and well-intentioned, and I refuse to let currently acceptable parenting behaviors suggest as truth the lie that I am victimizing their children, and that my pedagogy is mere punting and parlor tricks.  Hypocritical bullying doesn't impress me.  Doesn't impress many of my colleagues, either.

So there you have it for my first rant of the 2016-2017 school year.  I guess this is what happens now that I'm no longer twenty-six, or thirty-two, or even forty, a first year, seventh year, or fifteenth year teacher.  Luckily, my students have understood me all along, just as parents from "the good old days" did, not too terribly long ago.  School's in session, and as usual, I aim to teach.  We'll see how many parents end up needing a lesson from the teacher who puffy-heart-loves them and their children.

*****

Seriously.  PUFFY.  HEART.  LOVE.  It's going to be my hashtag for this year.

#PuffyHeartLoveThisClass 

Mistakes, Reciprocity, and the Evolution of a Career

The fourth quarter of my twentieth year teaching kindergarten begins on Monday, and this year has been a doozy.

My first year of teaching was full of excitement, stress, challenges, surprises, and always the best of intentions, if not the flawless execution of my job.  I had enough "oopsies" to my credit by May to substantiate the assertion that first year teachers MAKE MISTAKES.  I felt off-balance for eight long months, but I gave teaching and my students my ALL, even when neighborhood parents (none of my students', thankfully) semi-jokingly told me they'd slash my tires if I tried to strike with the veteran union teachers, who had put it on the table as an option during negotiations.  Yay, parental threats.  Yay, collegial pressure. 

My second year of teaching was marked by treading professional water without drowning, which was no small feat, considering I couldn't swim.  Teach, yes.  Backstroke or doggie paddle?  Not so much.  It was my survival instinct, not experience, that guided me through to the calm conclusion of a parent conference in which a mother pulled a gun from her purse, because she was "nervous" her husband might show up at school to hurt her.  That year, my colleagues became my floaties, my professional life preservers and my breathing coaches, long before Dory and her "just keep swimming" mantra had been imagined by Disney.

Third year not-quite-so-rookie mistakes included not sticking up for myself when I was verbally attacked by an administrator for something I didn't do. Though innocent, I didn't defend myself against the yelling, the beratement, and the threats.  I couldn't think logically because I was in such shock of having been accused of something I never would have dreamed of doing.  All I could do was cry.  And hyperventilate.  And cry some more.  Even after my principal discovered who was really at fault, he never apologized to me.  I never asked him to.  I didn't have tenure, so I didn't stick up for myself out of fear of losing my job.  Walking on egg shells isn't conducive to being comfortable in one's own embroidered teaching jumper and plastic Hallmark jewelry.  That year I learned it was sometimes administrators versus teachers.

Big surprise, fourth year teachers make mistakes too!  They forget to give credit where credit is due, and some of them even leave their sub plans in their truck accidentally when taking a personal day, forcing their colleagues to scramble to assemble lessons and activities for twenty-six kindergartners and a sub.  Recognizing the value of an apology and sincere appreciation, I understood that in addition to offering both, I'd have to make a conscious effort to show my colleagues how committed I was to doing a good job.  I wanted to be trusted to pull my own weight, and I wanted to be a help to others when it was needed.  I added to my list of professional goals, and was determined to reach them.

I discovered my teaching groove in Year Five.  Its soundtrack might have included a lot of Phil Collins, Journey, and Windham Hill instrumentals, but oh my, it was a good year, full of more affirmations and laughter than mistakes.  I welcomed my first education practicum student into my classroom, and though I was able to teach her quite a bit, we ended up learning so much more together.  The experience built from the stress, surprises and challenges from my first four years of teaching enabled me to solve problems quickly, anticipate issues, head them off at the pass, and innovate.  I felt like I was finally contributing to the profession.  I also lived in the same neighborhood where I taught.  My Super Star families became my extended family, as did my colleagues.  We shopped at the same grocery stores, bought morning lattes at the corner barista, and attended school concerts for our children.  I belonged.

I spent five more years in the same school in Alaska, teaching siblings, cousins, and neighbors of my first class of kindergartners.  I saw my very first Super Stars off to junior high and then to high school before Uncle Sam moved our family to New Mexico.  In the desert I taught soldiers' children, and had actual rocket scientists with whom I formed partnerships and conferenced as we set goals for their five and six year olds.  Moving several more times, my family and I ended up here in Kansas, "Oz," where I have continued to work with military and civilian families for the past nine years.  Having experienced the mandatory nomadic lifestyle required of military service members and their families, I have often felt connected to my students and their parents because of our shared culture.  Despite being a veteran teacher however, I continued to make unique mistakes borne from different perspectives and schema.  Blogging and social media usage, though on my time and away from the classroom, crossed some lines a few year ago with colleagues who were fearful I was going to "tell everyone our secrets," and administrators concerned I was going to damage our "brand" with honest critiques or by sharing too much.  

I'd like to tell you that there was a magic moment after I had accumulated enough teaching experiences, when I stopped making mistakes. Unfortunately, even after twenty years, there's one I still continue to make, even though I've experienced its sting enough times to know better: I misinterpret the smiles, volunteerism, small gifts and tokens, and lack of interference from my students' families as indicators that they ALL understand and trust my intentions.  Most parents are in fact, wonderful partners in education, advocating not only for their children, but for classmates, teachers, and schools.  But there are always parents who operate behind a facade of pleasantry that I misread as sincerity and trust until some situation arises (usually a disciplinary concern regarding their perpetually innocent child, or some misinterpretation that is taken to an administrator before clarification is ever sought out with me) resulting in the popping of my Pollyanna bubble.  And it pops every time.

This mistake troubled me to no end my first year teaching.  It gnawed at me my third year teaching.  It made me wince my sixth year.  I'm certain I cried over it during my seventh, ninth, and twelfth years.  It made me bitterly angry my fifteenth and nineteenth years.  And now in my twentieth, I've tried to examine it in context with the evolution of my teaching career,  in order to come to some conclusion that might help me to put my mind and heart at ease, something I feel is necessary the longer I teach.  Here's what bothers me: as I believe in the possibilities that await each and every student, I somehow spread that sparkly optimism and goodness I feel for them over to their parents.  I want to see the magic in everyone.  I want to see what makes them special, and I assume that everyone will rise to the occasion if given the opportunity, or want to share if they feel welcome and safe, and will trust me the way I choose to trust them.  I believe their seeming acceptance is more than mere tolerance.

It's this unrealized hope of reciprocity and respect that bites me in the rear, year after year.

Every Student Deserves Representation and Safety

I believe teachers' responses near and far to both yesterday's SCOTUS decision and recent news that increased awareness of transgender issues will be the ultimate litmus tests for many in the profession, stretching the patience and tolerance of those with whom they work. Some might consider it the height of professionalism to "leave well enough alone" or "keep your mouth shut," but student advocacy, not just instruction, is part of our responsibility.  In the search for age-appropriate books to add to my class library, I came across a thread on social media where veteran teachers were asserting how they weren't going to read "filth"/"this material" to their students, such as storybooks that include characters who dress in gender-opposite clothing or have two mothers, even if there is a student (or students) in their classroom who has same-sex parents or demonstrates gender fluidity (like many do in kindergarten). 

If "this material," meaning storybooks that illustrate the diversity represented by families, doesn't belong in the classroom and in the hands of our youngest learners who are likely to witness, if not experience these and many other social changes firsthand, then how will students learn to adapt, behave, interpret, and hopefully positively impact the world around them?  How are they to feel safe within their classrooms, schools, and neighborhoods? How are children from more traditional family arrangements supposed to learn about and practice respectful behaviors if they can't ask the questions they're bound to want to every time they encounter something new to them?  Some teachers in the post I stumbled across were advocating for a return to the "good ol' days" of reading, writing and arithmetic, and ignoring "the sick behavior" they find so disgusting.  These folks are oblivious to the fact that change and diversity are the rules on this planet, NOT the exceptions.  Are we to deny our students access to literature portraying biracial or bicultural families, or media that includes images of those suffering from handicapping conditions, or the death of a family member because a teacher thinks they're icky or the topic makes them uncomfortable?  Do we have the right to deny each student supportive representation and the feeling of belonging?  Teachers should not contribute to the idea that some children are less deserving or less human because of the decisions that their parents, in whatever arrangement they're presented make, or because of which gender each child might identify with.  Teachers should commit to the emotional and physical safety of our students and their families without thinking that our opinion regarding issues OTHER than abuse and neglect are in any way our business.  The love and care between parents and children and teachers and classmates has nothing to do with promoting sexuality.  I weep for the children who have to face a "trusted adult" in the classroom who looks at them or their families with an expression of disgust.

It's imperative for those who have chosen to work in the arena of public education to remember who they serve: the public, not just select members of that neighborhood or community. If your upbringing, belief system, sense of entitlement, or even gag reflex prevent you from giving each and every student your best, consider a change in venue. Find support and employment in a like-minded private school, or open your own. You'll be doing yourself, and many children a favor.

*****

I found the following books on Amazon.com- do you know of any others?  Link me up in the comments.

Morris Micklewhite and the Tangerine Dress

The Family Book

Who's in My Family?

Red: A Crayon's Story

... and Tango Makes Three

I've Said it Before, and I'll Say it Again

Reading David Kohn's "Let the Kids Learn Through Play" this morning, my child advocate's voice asserted itself loudly in my head, greatly surprising me since I'm facing the last week of kindergarten, a time when many teachers are near collapse from exhaustion and the wide range of emotions washing over them.  Instead of grumbling incoherently, the voice roared "I've said it before and I'll say it again:"

What I really wish new-to-service teachers, ivory-tower administrators and bubble-boy/girl politicians understood is this: play does not equal "unproductive and non-beneficial fluff time."  Rolling over, crawling, standing upright, balancing, walking, running, climbing, and babbling are ALL challenging to the child beginning to develop his or her skills.  So too are sharing, negotiating, coming to understand cause and effect, developing patience, and learning to use new tools safely and efficiently, such as pencils, scissors, squeeze glue, buttons on a keyboard, or the fragile skin of technology and books.  Don't forget to add broadening language and building stamina to the mix as well, especially because a child's typical work day is full of new tasks, deadlines, social mores, and transitions requiring copious amounts of sustained attention and interaction.  Yes, the "school day" IS a work day schedule that young children are introduced to when they start kindergarten, and it's not an easy or immediate adjustment to make.  I've always found it ironic that many administrators will tell you that kindergartners "don't need naps" by the end of the school year, though we all know plenty of adults who require rest and down time throughout the day.

Because advocates for developmentally appropriate practice are regarded as old softies, our pedagogy is assumed to be lacking in "rigor," "challenge," and even "standards," likely because we insist on giving our students plastic knives at the play doh center instead of surgical grade scalpels.  Well-intentioned (and usually inexperienced) colleagues and administrators bound by asinine funding equations run roughshod over our suggestions, protests, and advice when we dare to express what is obvious to us: young children aren't committing a crime, lacking gumption, failing to perform, or offensive because they're not behaving like short third and fourth graders during their preschool and kindergarten years.  Even worse: teachers who don't appreciate or even like all of the incredible things that four, five and six year olds are, take positions where they inflict their distaste, judgement, and severe lack of knowledge regarding child development upon our youngest learners. These adults are easy to recognize: they're the ones complaining in the lounge or staff meetings about how "these little kids just don't get it" or "they just can't DO anything," while those much better suited to the grade and students are expressing how the academic expectations or assessments aren't appropriate matches for the children we teach.  Guess which group of teachers is regularly criticized for their point of view?  

The development that naturally occurs through play, exploration, partnership, and emotional bonding is not an affliction or unnecessary detour from all things curricular: it's an essential prerequisite for further growth.  Children must, with very few exceptions, roll over before they crawl, crawl before they walk, and become acquainted with and develop many more skills that are necessary in order to build a firm foundation upon which their ABC's, 123's, empathy, and life's passions will stand and grow.  These stages of skill acquisition occur on a continuum: you don't hopscotch over a few squares to get to the end faster, or interpret the wobbly or full face-plant landing as proof that a child needs ankle braces, ski poles, smaller squares, larger squares, or a stunt double in order to be successful within the  grading period allotted.  Time, practice, and encouragement, not developmentally inappropriate demands and deadlines, are the initial supports most children need as they continue their journey as brave, capable human beings through play and partnership.

Re-Post: Popsicle Sticks, Colored Cards and Clothespins Aren't Classroom Management Tools

This post was originally published by me several years ago, but has been updated to include reference to today's ever popular "clip up" behavior management charts.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a complete popsicle stick, card and clothespin advocate when it comes to classroom and home crafts, or, go figure, for making popsicles, playing games and hanging up laundry.  It's when these creativity-inspiring, cool-snack-enabling pieces of paper, wood and plastic are used for discipline (oops, I mean "classroom management tools") that I find myself biting my tongue and checking my facial expression and body position (don't want to be accused of negativity or not being a team player, now do I?) as I mentally maneuver my way through possible suggestions or responses to colleagues who are asking for my input on how best to get their students "to behave."

Discipline: training that corrects, molds, or perfects the mental faculties or moral character; control gained by enforcing obedience or order; orderly or prescribed conduct or pattern of behavior; a rule or system of rules governing conduct or activity; a form of punishment.

Have you witnessed a student being told to go "pull a stick" in a classroom after demonstrating behavior that a teacher doesn't like?  How about overhearing a student being told by classmates "Oooh, you're gonna have to flip a card?"  Perhaps several students have whispered "Uh oh, if you clip down you won't get to go outside for recess!" Are you a teacher who routinely warns students about their "stick status?" Substitute the words "card," "face card" or "move your clip" for "stick" in any of the above examples- it's the same concept: using public humiliation as a form of behavioral control. Sadly, popsicle stick pocket displays and clothespin clipper charts are popular classroom management tools.





Excerpts from "Public Humiliation" at Wikipedia: "Just like painful forms of corporal punishment, it (public humiliation) has parallels in educational and other rather private punishments (but with some audience), in school or domestic disciplinary contexts, and as a rite of passage. Physical forms include being forced to wear some sign such as... a "Dunce Cap", having to stand, kneel or bend over in a corner, or repeatedly write something on a blackboard ("I will not spread rumors" for example)." "In some cases, pain or at least discomfort is insignificant or rather secondary to the humiliation..." "Even when not strictly public, humiliation can still be a psychologically "painful" aspect of punishment because of the presence of witnessing peers, relatives, staff or other onlookers, or simply because the tormentor witnesses how self-control is broken down. This is also true for punishments in class."


Classrooms are not supposed to be prisons. I am no warden. As a teacher, I am employed to educate, guide, and serve the academic, physical, social and emotional needs of my students. To fulfill my job requirements successfully, I take the time at the beginning of each year to build a positive rapport with my students and work with them to establish a safe environment in our classroom. This means I observe my students at length, I interview their parents (personally and in surveys that are sent home), open lines of communication between school and home, and I constantly model appropriate behaviors and reactions to most, if not all, of our classroom experiences.  No yelling or threats, just explanations, questions, and role playing appropriate reactions for "next time."  Praise, explanation, appreciation, modeling, practicing, and more praise.

"You must feel so good inside. You accidentally spilled the glue, but you told me and helped me clean it up. That's terrific!"

"Thank you for showing J. what a good friend you can be. You hurt his feelings, but then you apologized. I think he feels better now, I hope you do too."

" I'm so glad you remembered how to move safely during free center time! You didn't run, so you didn't get hurt/hurt others today! Good job!"

"Thank you for letting B. have a turn to talk with me. When I'm done talking with her, your turn will be next. Thank you for waiting nicely, you're being very polite."

I'm certain I sound Pollyanna-ish, and admittedly, I go home with a sore throat and sore face every day for the first month of school because of how much I verbally communicate and smile with each of my students. In my classroom you'll find popsicle sticks in our Creative Construction Zone and counting chart and centers.  Clothespins clip to our lunch chart and help us display our artwork and posters.  Cards are used for games and our word wall.  You won't find any of these tools used to crush a child's spirit into compliance.

*****

~ Just-turned-five-year-olds are not experts of self-control.  Neither are many adults.  Have you ever seen an adult burst into tears, "vent" in a less-than-appropriate venue, or behave in publicly embarrassing ways?  Of course you have.  No one is perfect, though adults have years and years of experience built from successes, mistakes, and regrets that young children can't and won't possess after a month's worth of classroom time, no matter how many time outs, cards pulled, clips moved, or whistles blown that you inflict upon them.

~ First graders tend to be a little more acclimatized to school than kindergarten students are, while second graders demonstrate a bit more familiarity with the choreography of the classroom environment than they did the previous year.  Fifth graders don't have automaton groupthink mastered, just as tenth graders don't march lockstep between classes because they're in high school.  Students are children, organic and dynamic individuals who are in school to experience and explore concepts and materials introduced to or suggested by them.  They are not dull, programmable mimics.

~The need to guide and respond in meaningful ways to our students is great, but it's a practice that many teachers and schools ignore because they believe "there isn't time." Popsicle sticks are faster.  Clothespins are faster.  Embarrassing a student is faster.  Encouraging silent and not-so-silent peer pressure via public humiliation is faster.  But it's not better, and if you really think about it, it's bullying.  I don't care what polka-dotted or chevron patterned decor you use on your behavior charts, bullying isn't cute, appropriate, or necessary if you build authentic relationships with your students.

~ Too often teachers forget that their students are children, no matter what they wear, how they behave, or what they say. While children aren't social savants, they are certainly masters of observation, and they have emotional reactions to and an elephant's memory for interactions, good and bad, with the adults in their lives. You are making an impression on your students, and your treatment of them will determine their reaction and responses to you.

~ Students are not sent to school in order to make a teacher's day brighter, comfortable, or to feed a professional's ego, so it's amazing to me that a classroom full of children "complying" by sitting in their chairs, completely silent, demonstrating no interactive or inquiry-based behaviors, is considered not only a successful model of classroom management, but is also a preferred outcome for many a teacher.  No questions are being asked, no ideas are being explored, no communication is occurring, but teachers continue to receive praise for the silence their administrators and colleagues witness.  Knowledge should be exchanged with students, shared and explored amongst peers and guides, not just dumped into their open skull caps, lips zipped.

For my initial month's worth of teaching, guidance, and constant communication, my students work in an atmosphere that frankly, throws people for a loop for the remainder of the year.   Month after month, observers, parents and colleagues come in and sit at my reading table, just to watch and listen, and take it all in. They hear children, those "uncontrollable and impulsive" kindergartners talking, apologizing, encouraging, laughing, singing, and debating.  They witness students approach me with questions, not interrupting, waiting until I'm done speaking to someone else.  They hear explanations of feelings, expectations of how someone can help, negotiations between peers, instead of tattles and screams and cries.  They hear productive noise, which many had previously felt indicated mayhem, a "lack of control," a "zoo," or proof that I'm lacking classroom management skills.  Funny the things visitors hear when they stop to truly listen, and what they see when they truly observe.

Because I've listened respectfully to my Super Stars, and because I've shared and explained without threat by modeling expectations and appropriate responses, I've demonstrated kindness instead of humiliation. I've appreciated my students for who they are and what they do, and in turn they reciprocate when I indicate it's time to transition from one activity to another. They respond appropriately, they enable each other, they cooperate.  When difficulties arise, we work through the problem together, and recover quickly.  There are no reminders of failures or mistakes lit up with neon and glitter on our bulletin boards.  My students help me create and maintain a positive learning environment, their ownership and sense of belonging being the essential foundation upon which the rest of our learning is built.  They apologize, forgive, negotiate, compromise, and contribute.  So do I.  I invest in my students, their feelings, and their potential to learn.  I do not believe their first and foremost responsibility is to learn how to comply, Pavlovian in nature.

If you can only control/direct your students through threats and public humiliation, it's time to rethink your purpose, pedagogy and moral compass.  How would you feel if your principal, administrator, or spouse put you on a popsicle stick chart or added a clip chart to the front of your refrigerator?  Go ahead, imagine it: You speak out of turn to your grade level partner during inservice, and your administrator stops the meeting (or uses a hand signal recognized by all) to tell you to pull a stick.  You arrive late to a staff meeting because your potty break could only happen as soon as the bell rang and you had bus duty, and the speaker stops mid-sentence and tells you to flip a card.  You accidentally forget to stop at the store and pick up milk, so your spouse reminds you that you'll have to move your clip down on the behavior chart before you fix dinner (no worries: your spouse used a cute zebra stripe and clip art pattern on the chart!).  I'm betting it wouldn't take long before you'd categorize such public tracking/shaming as emotionally abusive.  How long would you tolerate it?  How willing would you be to perform your best?  How long could you perform your best while suffering from repeated overdoses of humiliation inducing fight-or-flight adrenalin?  How about the stress and performance anxiety experienced by those who are always "on green" or at the top of the chart?  That's right: those "good kids" often remain on top out of fear of you and the threat of public embarrassment for daring to be human.  Worse still, they come to believe in their own superiority, trickling out on the playground, over the lunch table, and on the bus ride home, thrown into the faces of classmates who didn't clip up.  What happens in the classroom doesn't stay in the classroom.

Many teachers never question why their mentors and role models do everything possible to ensure that public humiliation goes hand in hand with public education, and many new teachers are distracted by the glittery and gimmick-y products fellow educators sell or share online.  Working with a staff made up of mostly popsicle-stickers and clothespin clippers can be excruciating. You see your former students shamed into compliance, their new teachers finding fault in their questions, their exuberance, their anxiety, their need to adapt, and their need to move, express and explore... every behavior that demonstrates how students are children who require guidance, instruction, experience, and time to reflect on situations that occur both within and alongside the math or reading curriculum, children who are expressing their excitement for learning.  When I've suggested relationship-building to colleagues who ask how to get their students to behave like mine, they groan and roll their eyes, obviously disappointed that I didn't offer them a quick fix.  My advice is perceived as a chore or imposition, an invalid "touchy-feel-y" approach, instead of as my professional practice that supports the building of the foundation to which I referred earlier, an essential "safe" zone where students can re-evaluate, recover and learn from natural mistakes.  Apparently many teachers don't or won't invest in effective content-rich communication with their students because its results aren't immediate, and its skills aren't mastered by a particular grading period.

Are you a teacher who prefers efficient embarrassment?  How often do you put yourself in your students' shoes?  Do you appreciate reasoning, valuing, fairness, and communication?   What, other than the time involved, prevents you from investing in an attainable and appropriate ideal that enables the best kind of learning to take place?

Stop investing in popsicle sticks, colored cards and clothespins as "classroom management tools."  Look past the chevron, glitter, and fancy fonts.  Stop thinking "faster is better."

Invest in your students.

*****

Imagine my relief in finding that I'm not the only one:

Pernille Ripp's So What's My Problem With Public Behavior Charts?

Alfie Kohn's Why Punishment Doesn't Work

*****

Yes, I feel the same way about public data walls.

*****

I know... I referred to it as a "potty break."  I'm a kindergarten teacher, remember?

Questions that Teachers as Parents Ask Ourselves

Six years ago, I was accused of being an "alarmist outsider" who wouldn't last (even though I had already taught for over a decade), a teacher who "over-communicated with parents," telling them "our secrets," letting them know things they "didn't need to know."  As the schools I'd worked at previously were all trying to increase parent involvement, communication was key, and was considered best practice.  My students benefitted from my partnership with their families.  With administrative approval, I decided to carry on being a bridge-builder.

Fast-forward to this evening: I'm finishing up my eighteenth year of teaching kindergarten.  I've taught in three states and four different school districts.  Having taught grades 1-6 in summer school, kindergarten August-May, and in both Title I and non-Title I schools, I consider myself "highly qualified."  I enjoy friendships with families of former students, and my students themselves.  Once you're Mrs. Sommerville's Super Star, you stay Mrs. Sommerville's Super Star.

Significant changes in education have happened over the course of my career.  In spite of big mandates, tons of press, and proponents and critics having their say, one thing remains true: diversity is the rule, not the exception.  An Alaskan student's educational needs don't match what a New York youngster likely needs to know.  Knowing this, shouldn't the multitude of ways that children across the nation learn about pulley systems be encouraged and allowed, with assessments addressing only the essential common knowledge that every child will likely apply about pulleys in their lives?  How many children from Alabama will ever help haul whales from the ocean onto the beach?  Because most, if not all of them won't, does that mean students in Barrow, Alaska shouldn't be taught how to use a block and tackle on the beach by their teacher, or have the system explained to them as part of their necessary, real life experience?  Should my Kansas students be denied the experience of planting flower bulbs at the beginning of the school year, observing a spring eruption of daffodils, because students in New Mexico don't or won't?  As more and more of our daily lessons become scripted by curricular requirements, less and less time is available for essential activities, activities that are now being labeled "fluff."

I've borne witness as several components of public education, curriculum, consumables and technology, have become hot commodities, and the producers, be they big name publishing houses or independent school teachers on TPT, sell, sell, sell.  Education is not only a profession now, it's a business.  Big business.  The government supports this, and makes sure that districts purchase from a controlled group of assessment and curriculum manufacturers in order to continue to receive funding for students.  Teacher-created materials initially supplemented or filled the holes that the Biggies didn't address or provide for, but if you've ever visited sites that sell items from teachers, you've likely had to sift through products that frankly, don't meet the standard that they should.

Not surprisingly, standardized assessments reflect not only the bias of the test creators themselves, but the performance of the test-takers that is likely affected by a myriad of factors outside of the evaluation environment.  No matter how many granola bars, water bottles, rolls of Smarties, and daily cheers that are given to each child, they all bear the weight of how they handle the pressure: either blow off the test, or develop an ulcer over it.  How the data obtained in this scenario could ever be considered valid is beyond me.

While parents are incessantly barraged with education reform rah-rahs, critics of the negative effects of NCLB, Race to the Top, and other elements of educational reform are evaluated out of the system (or chased out after having their spirits crushed), newbies are hired, and tenure is made near impossible for any teacher to achieve as states move to widen the chasm that now exists between not only administrators and teachers, but teachers and parents, those former partners in education.  This technique is referred to as "divide and conquer."

I'm not just a teacher.  I'm also a mother, and I'm allowed to have an opinion about public school, considering two of my children have moved up through its system and are now attending college, while my youngest is still in elementary school.  I want his teachers to be informed, educated, curious, articulate and impassioned.  I want them to inspire him, guide him, and encourage him to question, discover, create, imagine and share.  As many skills are built upon earlier foundation levels, I understand they must assess his progress, and I have no problem with them communicating how important it is that he do his best, think through his activities, and participate, accepting help from and offering it to teachers, support staff and classmates.  I'd like them to guide him with patience, not urgency.  

Will any teacher be able to do so, if they themselves are limited to parroting out a scripted set of daily lessons and are forced to use a limited set of intervention and enrichment resources?  If teachers know that one-size-doesn't-fit-all, and they differentiate instruction to meet each student's needs, why are so many districts adopting intervention strategies previously used for a handful of students who truly need it as instructional "best practices" for entire classes?  When two of my students can't hold a pencil correctly, I don't make every child use a modified gripper tool.

What can I as a parent do to help my son's teachers, when as an education professional myself, I know all too well what mandates they're bound and limited by, and the threats they face if they question or challenge them?  What can my students' families do to help advocate for their children as I continue to do everything in my power to strengthen the partnership between us?

My End of the Year Reflection: Thank You for the Cupcakes

Summer vacation, Day One: slept in 'til almost 9 a.m.  First year in seventeen that it's happened.  Not sure if it's because being a little slow on the uptake, my body has finally figured out what its non-work-week rhythm should be or if it's simply because of the Everest-sized mountain of stress the last two weeks of school piled onto my shoulders.  Maybe it's a combination of both.  To this I'll say: ~Whatever~.  I'm having another cup of coffee.  To friends and colleagues who have also started their summer, pass me your mug, let me fill 'er up.  Cream and sugar?  To readers who are still in the throes of wrapping up their year, let me fill your cup AND your jumbo-sized travel mug.  I've got your back.

I like to blog an end-of-the-year reflection and response to questions that have arisen each May because I'm a closure type of person.  When I finish reading a book or series, or when a favorite show on t.v. ends its run, I appreciate the authors and producers who choose to leave no loose ends.  I don't want to wonder what if and I don't want to be left hanging in anticipation that I might find out how it all really concludes.  Something wonderful (or interesting) began, it happened, it ended.  And then I move on.

This year began with fewer professional responsibilities, which was a relief after last year's mayhem.  On my list: teacher, Social Club Committee member, Yearbook Advisor, Student Intervention Team member, KTOY panelist, and I hosted an education student for part of a semester.  Secret Santa was enjoyed in December and I was asked again to take care of an appreciation treat that has become a new tradition: gift baskets for our incredible and very deserving custodial staff.  The majority of my time was spent with my Super Stars and their families, just the way I like it.

My students arrived shyly, eagerly, nervously and excitedly in the fall and getting to know them all was a bonding process, often fun, occasionally hysterical, with a few tears and worries along the way.  Needs were accommodated for, smiles and hugs were shared, expectations were met, and hiccups were maneuvered around.  This was a year of strong personalities who jockeyed for position and were attention-seeking to the end.  Thankfully, the month of May found my Stars "in shape and ready for first grade."  Despite the abundance of behavior modification strategies (most of which involve some form of cutesy bribery or negative consequence), I'm not a believer that every child in a class can be coaxed, pushed, or forced into continual and matched compliance with all of his or her classmates year 'round.  This is likely because I've had "those years" with "those students" before.  It's doubtful this year's dynamic will be repeated for first grade teachers now that my students have been divided up between new classrooms and some of them are traveling to new schools in new states or countries thanks to Uncle Sam.  That's how it goes in our neck of the woods.

Most of my Star Families were involved, engaged, and supportive, sharing their humor, resources, information and patience with me all year long.  Regular email, class blog updates, and lots of photos via both have helped families to feel connected to what happens at school.  Conferences and after-school chats helped me to touch base, and my students and I benefitted from the partnership built with their parents.  Regular readers know about the Cupcake Queen too!  Her creations were enjoyed by students and teachers alike.

Spending time with education students and new-to-the-profession teachers, the advice I gave most this year was to create a friendly, sincere, professional relationship with your students' families.  Don't add them on Facebook or other social networks, don't share intimate information (or encourage them to do so in return), but do consider redefining the role of your classroom door, phone, and school email account: they're open and to be used by your families for communication, even when times are difficult.  Parents, like their children, need and deserve to be heard.  When they're heard, they begin to trust, and when they trust, they allow you the freedom to build the necessary classroom environment to see your students through their first year of public education.  Relationship-building might feel time consuming at first as well as emotional, and some teachers might not be comfortable with the touchy-feely aspect or perceived loss of time.  Colleagues who prefer doors to remain closed and their teaching practices sequestered from the eyes and ears of parents will certainly advise differently, but in this digital/sharing age, these teachers often end up appearing abrasive and secretive, receiving more complaints than trust from parents.  Change happens, and educators address it in their own ways in their own time.  Decide your parameters, but be kind in enforcing them.

This May wraps up seventeen years of teaching for me, though I was born into a family of teachers and have been involved in public education for nineteen.  I have three children, a college graduate, a college sophomore, and a newly-minted second grader.  I've experienced stabs and full-on attacks from "champions of educational reform" (most of them non-teachers) via No Child Left Behind and the Common Core Initiative as a teacher and mother in the three states in which we've lived and I've taught.  I have distinct memories of educational issues, reforms and changes that both my mother and uncle endured during their tenure.  Being a blogger and an avid reader of other education and teacher blogs, journals and websites, I know I'm not the only educator with over a decade's worth of concerns regarding the practice of blaming teachers, creating distrust in schools, and the advocacy of student achievement "guaranteed" by scripted instruction and the piling on of interventions.  Many of these strategies and interventions aren't effective because 1) they're developmentally inappropriate and 2) salesmen and politicians have convinced many administrators, parents and new teachers that play isn't learning.  It's difficult to know everything about every topic concerning public education, especially as many of us tread water with each new change and mandate lobbed at us annually, but it's important to be aware of and informed about the big picture in order to be best prepared for our students.  Working in a district gated from the rest of the state, the effects caused by political and societal changes have merely been delayed, effects I've witnessed having worked and visited elsewhere. Despite my efforts to share what I know and what I've seen, it's frustrating when colleagues spend years simply attributing these changes to their dislike of me, my teaching philosophy, or my pedagogy.

How do I handle both the positive and negative changes in education that others either wholeheartedly (unquestioningly) embrace or vehemently oppose?  I cherry pick my way through them.  My interests and tastes outside of the classroom are very diverse.  I dig through and choose the best recipes, advice, treasures and tools that I find and I leave the rest.  In the classroom, I have almost two decades' worth of experience and knowledge about how young children learn that help me recognize sh** from Shinola, canned programs from quality material, and I know how and where to find information and feedback from other teachers who have discovered new tools or are adding new tricks of the trade to compliment the tried-and-true.  I share what I know with new teachers.  I can discriminate between expertise and salesmanship.  I can compromise, and understand that I must as long as I'm not my own boss.  My paycheck is a necessity, not a luxury.  I cannot tell you how appreciative I am that I still love doing this job in spite of the changes created by our nation's faith in snake oil salesmanship.  I do more good for my students by recommitting myself to their quality instruction than I would by allowing myself to wallow in dismay over changes with which I don't agree.  This is the balance I have chosen for myself.

I appreciate it when administrators ask for my opinion, but I understand that they too are caught up in the momentum of their own schedules and rapid-fire decision making.  They meet many more salesmen than I do, and must shake hands and work with politicians who often use the classroom setting as a photo opportunity, campaign promise, or political tool.  Doing what they can to ensure funding to educate not only my students but my own son, I understand the compromises that district higher-ups make and admire the endurance they maintain.  They are parents of schoolchildren too.

Vocal child development experts and politically active teachers know that the effective advocacy of students relies heavily upon the setting and delivery of our message.  Heartfelt pleas are too emotional, invitations are considered pandering, and challengers become targets.  It's also a full time job, with very little steam, buzz or momentum created by a single impassioned email or letter.  One voice should matter, but it takes an awful loud one to cut through the media's barrage of "celebrity" teen moms, fashion faux pas and administration bashing.  A mere fifteen minutes of fame isn't enough time for teachers who must first distract the masses from the usual curricular or financial debates before introducing a truly pro-student focus.  The educational issues, battles and scandals in our nation's public school arena are as diverse as our students, making one-size-fits-all the most ridiculous goal ever set by reformers.  Children are not components on an assembly line.  It's a simple truth, not a terrifying inconvenience, and I admire and support those that have dedicated their voices to sharing this truth with the public.

Teaching is a pressure-filled job.  I'm appreciative for the simply given yet substantially felt support I continue to receive from administrators, many colleagues, my Super Star Families and child advocates who continue to work hard to fight on my students' behalf as I create and maintain a safe, engaging, and joyful learning environment for my kindergartners.  Thank you for your help, your hugs, and your high fives.

And thank you for the cupcakes.

It was a good year.

~Michaele~

*****

Want to visit other teachers who are looking back on their year and forward to their next teaching adventure?  Head over to iTeach 5th (and consider adding your own memories and goals to the party):

Professional Pet Peeve: Popsicle Stick and Clothespin "Discipline"

This post was originally published by me several years ago, but has been updated to include reference to today's ever popular "clip up" behavior management charts.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a complete popsicle stick and clothespin advocate when it comes to classroom and home crafts, or, go figure, for making popsicles and hanging up laundry.  It's when these creativity-inspiring, cool-snack-enabling pieces of wood and plastic are used for classroom discipline (oops, I mean "classroom management tools") that I find myself biting my tongue and checking my facial expression and body position (so that I won't be accused of negativity or not being a team player) as I mentally maneuver my way through possible suggestions or responses to colleagues who are asking for my input or ideas on how best to get their students "to behave."

Discipline: training that corrects, molds, or perfects the mental faculties or moral character; control gained by enforcing obedience or order; orderly or prescribed conduct or pattern of behavior; a rule or system of rules governing conduct or activity; a form of punishment.

Have you witnessed a student being told to go "pull a stick" in a classroom after demonstrating behavior that a teacher doesn't like?  You've likely heard a student be told by classmates "Oooh, you're gonna have to go pull a stick!"  Perhaps several students have whispered "Uh oh, if you lose another stick you won't get to go outside for recess!" Are you a teacher who routinely warns students about their "stick status?" Substitute the words "card," "face card" or "move your clip" for "stick" in any of the above examples- it's the same concept: using public humiliation as a form of behavioral control. Sadly, popsicle stick pocket displays and clothes pin clipper charts are popular classroom management tools.



Excerpts from "Public Humiliation" at Wikipedia: "Just like painful forms of corporal punishment, it (public humiliation) has parallels in educational and other rather private punishments (but with some audience), in school or domestic disciplinary contexts, and as a rite of passage. Physical forms include being forced to wear some sign such as... a "Dunce Cap", having to stand, kneel or bend over in a corner, or repeatedly write something on a blackboard ("I will not spread rumors" for example)." "In some cases, pain or at least discomfort is insignificant or rather secondary to the humiliation..." "Even when not strictly public, humiliation can still be a psychologically "painful" aspect of punishment because of the presence of witnessing peers, relatives, staff or other onlookers, or simply because the tormentor witnesses how self-control is broken down. This is also true for punishments in class."

Classrooms are not supposed to be prisons. I am no warden. As a teacher, I am employed to educate, guide, and serve the academic, physical, social and emotional needs of my students. To fulfill my job requirements successfully, I take the time at the beginning of each year to build a positive rapport with my students and work with them to establish a safe environment in our classroom. This means I observe my students at length, I interview their parents (personally and in surveys/questionnaires that are sent home), open lines of communication between school and home, and I constantly model appropriate behaviors and reactions to most, if not all, of our classroom experiences.  No yelling or threats, just explanations, questions, and role playing appropriate reactions for "next time."  Praise, explanation, appreciation, modeling, practicing, and more praise.

"You must feel so good inside. You accidentally spilled the glue, but you told me and helped me clean it up. That's terrific!"

"Thank you for showing J. what a good friend you can be. You hurt his feelings, but then you apologized. I think he feels better now, I hope you do too."

" I'm so glad you remembered how to move safely during free center time! You didn't run, so you didn't get hurt/hurt others today! Good job!"

"Thank you for letting B. have a turn to talk with me. When I'm done talking with her, your turn will be next. Thank you for waiting nicely, you're being very polite."

I'm certain I sound Pollyanna-ish, and admittedly, I go home with a sore throat and sore face every day for the first month of school because of how much I verbally communicate and smile with each of my students. In my classroom you'll find popsicle sticks in our Creative Construction Zone and counting chart and centers.  Clothespins clip to our lunch chart and help us display our artwork and posters.  You won't find either used to crush a child's spirit into compliance.

*****

~ Just-turned-five-year-olds are not experts of self-control.  Neither are many adults.  Have you ever seen an adult burst into tears, "vent" in a less-than-appropriate venue, or behave in publicly embarrassing ways?  Of course you have.  No one is perfect, though adults have years and years of experience built from successes, mistakes, and regrets that young children can't and won't possess in a month's worth of school, no matter how many time outs, cards pulled, clips moved, or whistles blown that you inflict upon them.

~ First graders tend to be a little more acclimatized to school than kindergarten students are, while second graders demonstrate a bit more familiarity with the choreography of the classroom environment than they did the previous year.  Fifth graders don't have automaton groupthink mastered, just as tenth graders don't march lockstep between classes because they're in high school.  Students are children, organic and dynamic individuals who are in school to experience and explore concepts and materials introduced to or suggested by them.  They are not dull, programmable mimics.

~The need to guide and respond in meaningful ways to our students is great, but it's a practice that many teachers and schools ignore because they believe "there isn't time." Popsicle sticks are faster.  Clothespins are faster.  Embarrassing a student is faster.  Encouraging silent and not-so-silent peer pressure via public humiliation is faster.  But it's not better, and if you really think about it, it's bullying.  I don't care what polka-dotted or chevron patterned decor you use on your behavior charts, bullying isn't cute, appropriate, or necessary if you build authentic relationships with your students.

~ Too often teachers forget that their students are children, no matter what they wear, how they behave, or what they say. While children aren't social savants, they are certainly masters of observation, and they have emotional reactions to and an elephant's memory for interactions, good and bad, with the adults in their lives. You are making an impression on your students, and your treatment of them will determine their reaction and responses to you.

~ Students are not sent to school in order to make a teacher's day brighter, more cheerful, or to feed a professional's ego. It's amazing to me that a classroom full of children "complying" by sitting in their chairs, completely silent, demonstrating no interactive or inquiry-based behaviors, is considered not only a successful model of classroom management, but also a successful model of teaching. No questions are being asked, no ideas are being explored, no communication is occurring, but teachers continue to receive praise for the silence their administrators and colleagues witness.  Knowledge is exchanged with students, shared and explored amongst peers and guides, not just dumped into their open skull caps, lips zipped.

For my initial month's worth of teaching, guidance, and constant communication, my students work in an atmosphere that frankly, throws people for a loop for the remainder of the year.   Month after month, observers, parents and colleagues come in and sit at my reading table, just to watch and listen, and take it all in. They hear children, those "uncontrollable and impulsive" kindergartners talking, apologizing, encouraging, laughing, singing, and debating.  They witness students approach me with questions, not interrupting, waiting until I'm done speaking to someone else.  They hear explanations of feelings, expectations of how someone can help, negotiations between peers, instead of tattles and screams and cries.  They hear productive noise, which many had previously felt indicated mayhem, a "lack of control," a "zoo," or proof that I'm lacking classroom management skills.  Funny the things visitors hear when they stop to truly listen, what they see, when they truly observe.

Because I've listened respectfully to my Super Stars, and because I've shared and explained without threat by modeling expectations and appropriate responses, I've demonstrated kindness instead of humiliation. I've appreciated my students for who they are and what they do, and in turn they reciprocate when I indicate it's time to transition from one activity to another. They respond appropriately, they enable each other, they cooperate.  When difficulties arise, we work through the problem together, and recover quickly.  There are no reminders of failures or mistakes lit up with neon and glitter on our bulletin boards.  My students help me create and maintain a positive learning environment, their ownership and sense of belonging being the essential foundation upon which the rest of our learning is built.  They apologize, forgive, negotiate, compromise, and contribute.  So do I.
I invest in my students, their feelings, and their potential to learn.  I do not believe their first and foremost responsibility is to learn how to comply, Pavlovian in nature.

If you can only control/direct your students through threats and public humiliation, it's time to rethink your purpose, pedagogy and moral compass.  How would you feel if your principal, administrator, or spouse put you on a popsicle stick chart or added a clip chart to the front of your refrigerator?  Go ahead, imagine it: You speak out of turn to your grade level partner during inservice, and your administrator stops the meeting (or uses a hand signal recognized by all) to tell you to pull a stick.  You arrive late to a staff meeting because your potty break could only happen as soon as the bell rang and you had bus duty, and the speaker stops mid-sentence and tells you to flip a card.  You accidentally forgot to stop at the store and pick up milk, so your spouse reminds you that you'll have to move your clip down on the behavior chart before you fix dinner.  I'm betting it wouldn't take long before you'd categorize such public tracking/shaming as emotionally abusive.  How long would you tolerate it?  How willing would you be to perform your best?  How long could you perform your best while suffering from repeated overdoses of humiliation inducing fight-or-flight adrenalin?  How about the stress and performance anxiety experienced by those who are always "on green" or at the top of the chart?  You didn't realize those "good kids" likely remained on top not only out of fear of you and embarrassment for being human, but because they too come to believe in their own superiority, which trickles out on the playground, at the lunch table, and on the bus ride home.  What happens in the classroom doesn't stay in the classroom.

Many teachers never question why their mentors and role models do everything possible to ensure that public humiliation goes hand in hand with public education, and many new teachers are distracted by the glittery and gimmick-y products fellow educators sell or share online.  Working with a staff made up of mostly popsicle-stickers and clothespin clippers can be excruciating. You see your former students squashed into compliance, their new teachers finding fault in their questions, their exuberance, their anxiety, their need to adapt, and their need to move, express and explore... every behavior that demonstrates how students are children who require guidance, instruction, experience, and time to reflect on situations that might occur outside of the math or reading curriculum.  When I've suggested relationship-building to colleagues who ask how to get their students to behave like mine, they groan, roll their eyes, obviously disappointed that I don't offer them a quick fix.  My advice is seen as a chore, an invalid "touchy-feel-y" approach, instead of as the foundation to which I referred earlier, an essential "safe" zone where students can re-evaluate, recover and learn from natural mistakes. Teachers don't invest in effective content-rich communication with their students because it's not immediate, and it isn't mastered after a particular grade.

Are you a teacher who prefers efficient embarrassment?  Why not invest in reasoning, valuing, fairness, and communication?  Invest in an attainable and attractive ideal that enables the best kind of learning to take place.

Invest in your students.