Driving Miss Sarah
December 2005
When my 7th-grade daughter, Sarah, was in elementary school, I had visions of moving to high school so I would have a little distance from her middle years. After all, just how much middle school can one adult take? The answer is that I'm truly delighted to spend much more time with Sarah than I ever did during her elementary schooling.
We live out of district and received a transfer for Sarah to attend Eisenhower. It takes about ten minutes of driving to get to and from school. For more than a decade, I did this drive alone with talk radio to keep me company. I now have Miss Sarah in the backseat. I would never have predicted how much I learn each day about her life as she tells me about how Mrs. Abernathy must have eyes in the back of her head to have seen one of her friends throw a French fry at lunch, or how cool it was to look at little bugs under the microscope in Miss Paine's class. I learn about her friends, the tribulations of middle school, and every perceived injustice from her teachers. It's wonderful!
If we lived a few blocks away or Sarah rode the bus, I would probably never have heard most of the little details of Sarah's school life. She'd be in her room listening to music when I arrived home, and, if I were to ask a direct question, I'd probably get a vague middle-school answer like “fine” or “nothing.” The car is perfect: it's a little enclosed space with no escape, which make conversation most conducive.
Looking back on my childhood, which was filled with school buses, I realize that my mother also had a little system to learn about my day. I remember coming home from all my years in public school to what my mother called “coffee break.” I suspect this was a holdover from my mother's days as a professional social worker. No one was drinking coffee, and the snacks she served would probably not meet today's health standards, but the old Formica kitchen table was like a watering hole for a thirsty animal. I showed up and started talking.
I would never dream of moving closer to Eisenhower; I'd lose my 10-minute drive and all the conversation it creates. Driving Miss Sarah is a wonderful daily experience. In fact, when it's time for her to get a license, I'll consider switching roles and she can sit in the front and I'll hang out in the backseat. There will always be something to learn from our conversation.
November 2004
Way back in February of 1964, Bob Dylan released his poignant album and song of the same name from which I've taken the title of this essay. If a person wanted to own a copy, he would have to visit a local music store and buy a vinyl album. Little did Bob Dylan realize how much the times have changed since that large plastic disk with mechanical squiggles in its groves was shipped off to shops.
Today, if I want a copy of the song, I zip to the internet, log on to my iTunes account, and spend a dollar to download a digital file that is really nothing more than a string of zeros and ones that, when decoded by my computer audio system, becomes a flawless rendition of a 40-year-old song.
The times really are a-changing. This current group of students at Eisenhower has no clue what a 45 RPM record is; they have a vague sense of albums; and only a few can identify an 8-track tape. In fact, that little disk we call a CD may well be obsolete before they are adults. Music is but one example of how rapidly our world is changing.
My 6th-grade daughter was one of the first children in New Mexico to receive the chicken-pox vaccine. She and all the children who subsequently received this little shot will never quite understand when I reminisce about the week I stayed home from kindergarten when I had chicken pox. Her eyes will be as blank as when I heard my parents talk about polio.
This, too, is probably the last generation that will remember newspapers delivered to the doorstep every morning, and they will laugh about actually getting in a car and driving to a video store to rent a thing called a VHS tape. A hand-written check will seem as odd as using beads for money. In fact, coins and paper may well become a novelty like an 8-track tape.
All of this strongly suggests to me as a parent and teacher that education must be about teaching students to think and reason. Change can be very rapid like the advent of the internet, and, like the world-wide web, it is often undirected. Online grades and banking were simply not part of our daily lives when this group of students was in diapers. Panic now sets in quickly if our internet connection is down for more than half an hour.
The times are a-changing. I'm confident that we in the public schools--with much assistance from parents--are raising a generation that can face the changes ahead. This digital generation must not only have the ability to adapt and grow more rapidly than any previous generation, but they must have solid sense of who they are and what is right and just. Let's hope that they have the requisite tools to make wise choices. I also hope that someone will explain to them that Bob Dylan is a real person.
The year 1990 was a busy one for me: my mother passed away in January, I got married in June, and I began teaching at Eisenhower in August. I was twenty-seven years old and was pretty certain that I would make it through the rest of the year.
I'm now forty. I've lived in the same house for ten years, which is the longest I have ever lived in one place. In fact, the twelve years I've been at Eisenhower represent the longest I've ever done one thing in my entire life.
I've reached the midpoint of my life in many ways. I'm statistically at about the halfway point of my expected lifespan; if I retire after twenty-five years of teaching, I'm just about at the fifty-yard career line; and my nine-year-old daughter is halfway to leaving home to find her place in the world.
Over spring break my family and I traveled to Tulsa to visit one of my old college roommates. We've been friends for over twenty years. We spent way too many nights in the dorms at the University of Tulsa arguing politics and philosophy and solving the world's problems. Now we worry about whether our children have ear infections. We have become middle aged.
I'm not lamenting turning forty, but I realize that midpoints represent a chance to glance in the rearview mirror and see the road already traveled. It's not what I would have predicted as a seventeen-year-old college freshmen; however, I have no regrets as I view the trip my life has taken.
The future is always over the next hill and is dimly seen at best. I can only hope that the next forty years equal the first half of my life. Being middle aged is really quite fun.
The Power Of Working Together
October 2001
The first semester of eighth-grade science is an introduction to physics. One of my goals as a science teacher is to have students collect and analyze data on a weekly basis. Not only is this a lot of fun for me and the students, but sometimes even bigger lessons are learned.
Recently we spent the better part of a week figuring out the average speed of an eighth grader in the halls of Eisenhower. The students measured out a 10-meter course in the hall and repeated many individual trials to determine each one's individual speed. For two years "walking," we have found the class average to be 1.4 meters per second.
An interesting sidebar this year was an analysis by the students as to whether a four-minute passing period is long enough. To be able to travel almost 340 meters in four minutes is really a considerable distance. In fact, most students agreed--some very reluctantly--that, indeed, four minutes is more than enough even with a visit to a locker or restroom.
The culminating activity for this unit is to have the students take a practical quiz. I premeasured a 165-meter section of the front sidewalk, and the students are given time to go outside with stopwatches. They time themselves as they walk the length of the sidewalk. I give very little guidance. Most figure out that multiple trials are a good idea.
The students then return to class where they have time to work by themselves or with others. They calculate the unknown distance using their walking times and their average speeds, which were determined earlier in the week.
Most students choose to work in small groups. These groups are allowed to turn in one paper with the group average. The grading is very simple: I just figure out what percent away the group is from the real distance and that's the grade. If one is off by ten percent, then that's an A-.
There is in all of this a lesson that goes far beyond eighth-grade science. Most groups are within ten to twenty percent, and a couple even get down in the single digits. When I average all the groups together, however, I get an answer that is within one percent of the real value. This replicates the results from last year exactly.
The power of working together is amazing! The group that is high averages out with the group that is low. Together my students found the right answer with a 99 percent accuracy. That's good enough for me.
The cautionary part of this lesson is that it's not human nature to work in large groups. This year I even encouraged each class to compile all the results; not one class did so. We must remember that when we all work toward a common goal, much can be accomplished.
Yes, I'm a Science Nerd
November 2000
As part of the EPTO magazine fundraiser, the science department agreed to dress up as science nerds if a certain goal was met. Of course, the requisite goal was reached, and the department had to fulfill its promise.
My first reaction to this was deeply philosophical. I thought to myself that this is really the wrong message to send to kids. People who do science should not be viewed as nerds. Science is something that every person needs to know.
As I was getting dressed that morning, I realized that a few simple alterations to my daily wardrobe resulted in a quite convincing costume. This was a bit scary and gave me some more philosophical musings. I really did not want to admit that I fit the role as well as I obviously did.
I even had a student who did not realize that I was wearing a costume and quietly admitted that she wondered if I had a bad morning. She was really very kind and did not want to offend me. By this point in the day, I found this whole thing quite amusing.
I realize now that my entire life I've fit the role of science nerd. When I was in high school in the late 70's, I carried around my hundred-dollar programmable Hewlett-Packard calculator with great pride. Looking back I'm sure my peers saw me as a science nerd. I think I was far too oblivious to even be aware of how others might have viewed me. And to this day I have a trusty Hewlett-Packard calculator in my briefcase. I'd be lost without it. This is, I think, a sure sign of being a science nerd.
This whole event caused even more philosophical thoughts. I'm now ready twenty years after high school to admit that I'm a science nerd. This, however, is not an admission whispered under my breath. It is with pride I embrace the term "nerd" not as an insult but as the compliment it really is. It is, after all, the science and math nerds who run most of our high-tech society.
I'm still convinced that everyone needs to know and understand how science works, but there's nothing wrong with the science nerd image. The future belongs to people who understand math and science. With calculator in hand, I proudly admit that, yes, I'm a science nerd.
Is That Your Final Answer?
April 2000
There is little on TV that I find appealing, but I have to admit that I have watched a number of episodes of _Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?_ Kudos to the people who put this show together. It really is a well-packaged program. There is something deep in our collective psyche that is drawn to believing that if we just know enough trivia we can become wealthy.
While highly entertaining and quite slick, this show belittles what true learning and scholarship are all about. And while I am quite proficient in mastering trivia, I truly don't believe that knowing a bunch of facts is what a solid education should impart.
A well-educated person is the very first to realize that it's just not possible to be an expert on all subjects. Even within one's field there are always new things to learn. My eighth-grade science students have been studying metals and alloys. One of my students came to me and asked what the new dollar coin was made from. It clearly looks like an alloy, but I could only guess as to what kind of alloy.
If I had been on a quiz show, I would have lost; however, in the real world of learning, my student and I hopped on the Internet (www.usmint.gov) and discovered that it's a solid core of copper bonded to a manganese-brass cover. Cool. I learned something, my inquisitive student learned something, and, best of all, we both learned how to learn.
If education were simply about cramming students' heads full of facts, teaching would be a relatively simple affair. In fact, education is much more than pouring trivia into craniums. This is what makes teaching a particularly challenging profession. Knowing a host of unrelated facts may be useful for the few people chosen for gameshows. The rest of us need to know how to find and use information in an ever-changing world. I sincerely hope I am never asked if something is my final answer. Life and learning are too complicated for final answers.
In Praise of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
February 2000
One of the wonderful things I had time to do over break was to read. I devoured five different books in just a few days. I don't think I've read this much in such a short time since my carefree days before marriage, kids, and a real job. By far the most delectable book in my literary smorgasbord was Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, which was, appropriately, a gift from a student.
On first glance, Harry Potter may appear to simply be another light dessert in the many offerings that are out there in young adult literature. I believe, however, that this is the main course, dessert, and the side dishes all thrown together in just the right way. It's perfect for middle-school students, but there is much meat for adults.
The story line is relatively simple: Harry Potter is a young boy who is much abused by his adoptive relatives, and discovers that he is in fact a famous wizard. This is the classic hero's journey. It is Odysseus taking twenty years to get home; it is Bilbo Baggins out to defeat the mighty dragon; it is Moses leading his people to the promised land. And it's a lot of fun in the process.
This theme is central to literature because we all are trying to find our way in a world that does not always make sense. I think this is especially true for students as they gain independence in adolescence. One of the really fabulous metaphors that is used in the book is when Harry is sent of to wizard school. He's told to get on the train at Platform Nine and Three Quarters. No such platform, of course, seems to exist when he arrives at the station. With effort and a bit of help Harry does get on the train and arrive at Hogwarts School. We, too, spend much time looking for the right "train" to take us through life.
Becoming a wizard is also a metaphor for learning how to take control of one's life. It's not easy to become a wizard. The teachers are tough, the tests daunting, and young Harry has serious doubts about his abilities. We identify with heroes because we learn from the journeys of others. It never hurts to see the famous Harry Potter completely flumoxed. A hero does not need to be perfect; he or she must simply show that for all its tribulations life is manageable and worthwhile.
If you are looking for a book that will satiate your hunger, I cannot recommend a better book in the last ten years than Harry Potter. It operates on many levels, which itself is a mark of fine literature. And if nothing else every literate person needs to know about Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. Go! Read!
Driving In Boston
September 1999
My summer vacation was filled with many activities--both personal and professional. The one event that stands out, however, was a week-long trip to Boston for my brother's wedding. The nuptials went flawlessly, and everyone had a wonderful time.
We flew--the only way to travel any distance with children--and rented a car upon our arrival. I think it was a bad sign from the very start when the rental agent's directions were not very clear about how to get from the airport to Tufts University, the site of the wedding. It only took us about two hours to get to our hotel. Many a wrong turn was made en route, and the strength of marital bonds was tested as I queried my wife whether we should go left or right and she would reply, "go straight."
Part of the problem of driving in Boston is the fact that the major streets do not have signs at the intersections. The little unimportant streets all have well-marked signs, but I guess that if your relatives arrived on the Mayflower, you should know all the big streets by heart. If you are a visitor from the dusty Southwest, then you're out of luck. And you will be forced to go in circles and stop at every fifth gas station to ask for directions.
We completely missed the rehearsal and just made it to my brother's in time for the rehearsal dinner. We did make it to the wedding on time the next day by allowing an hour to travel about fifteen miles. Even then we made a couple of wrong turns.
All of this made me think of what the beginning of school is like for hundreds of students. The halls at Eisenhower can be just a confusing as the winding streets of Boston. As I watched many an anxious face the first week, I was reminded of my own anxiety as I searched in vain for Massachusetts Avenue.
The good news is that with time the halls, room locations, locker combinations, and individual teacher requirements begin to make sense. It really does take time to figure out how school works. I don't think, however, I really want to invest the time to figure out Boston; I'm happy right here.
http://www.aps.edu/aps/index.html
May 1999
Three or four years ago the title to this essay would have been unrecognizable to most people. Today, virtually everyone knows that it's an address for a site on the World Wide Web. It is, of course, the APS home page, and it's a first-rate location that tells a surfer just about every imaginable fact about the Albuquerque Public Schools. Everything from lunch menus to individual teacher pages can be found at this site and its links.
The statistics given on this page tell an interesting story about the phenomenal growth of the Web in education. In 1996, 24,000 people visited the APS home page. By the end of 1997, that number had jumped to 89,000, and last year 302,000 people logged onto the APS server. I was visitor 2,947 for the day when I checked on these statistics.
This rate of growth is something that cannot be ignored by teachers, parents, or students. The computer has changed how I teach in many significant ways. In fact, I would quit teaching if I could not use a computer. The Internet, however, has taken the computer from being a useful tool in my classroom and has supercharged it and turned it into the most useful thing since chalk.
I rely very heavily on the Internet for material for lessons. I recently wanted my social studies students to have some visual impressions of World War One. In about five minutes of using a search engine, I was able to find a site that had archived thousands of original photographs from WWI. I gave the class the Web address, and we spent a class period perusing the site in Eisenhower's computer lab. This lesson did everything I wanted it to do; the Internet made it possible.
The use of e-mail is yet another boon to education. I've logged about 100 e-mails this year that are directly related to school. I recently had the folks from Hawks Aloft visit my sixth-grade science classes. That entire visit was arranged via e-mail. I'm not free to run to the phone, and that paper stuff with the little 33-cent things is just too slow. E-mail and the Internet made the connections for a wonderful lesson about raptors--the live Mexican spotted owl was breathtaking.
I am convinced that the computer linked to the Internet is the most significant thing to happen to education since the printing press. Almost three thousand visits a day to the APS home page can't be wrong. This is just the beginning.
That Was Then...This Is Now
March 1999
My daughter, Sarah, attends kindergarten at Inez Elementary School. We don't live within the boundaries but have chosen to send Sarah to Inez because it's a science and technology magnet school.
One of the contractual responsibilities of magnet parents is to spend time in the school. I recently took a day off and spent the day teaching six year olds about electrons. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I think the kids learned something and had a good time, too. They especially liked the magnets and the Van de Graaff generator.
This got me thinking about my own days in kindergarten back in the mid sixties. All too often we hear that education has dropped again and how students cannot read, calculate, or write as they could in the "good old days." When I compare what Sarah is learning and doing in kindergarten to what I did at the same age, there is no question that there has been an amazing leap forward.
Sarah has a weekly homework calendar with wonderful assignments like observing the moon and recording what it looks like for a full week. She also carries a folder back and forth every day, which is first-rate training for future school responsibilities. Sarah has just finished her first science fair project complete with a hypothesis, data collection, and a conclusion.
At this same time in my life, I was cutting out pictures of cows and attaching movable legs. In a full day at a private kindergarten, I learned far less than Sarah learns in a half day at a public school. As a teacher and a parent, I am very pleased with the public education Sarah is receiving. It is, in my estimation, far superior to what I got in the "good old days."
There is no question that society has changed since my childhood; however, from my personal experience as a parent and teacher, I don't see education in decline. My daughter and my students know more, are thinking at higher levels, and are getting a better education than I ever did. And that's something that does not get reported too often. You read it here first.
The Land of Giants
February 1999
A few years ago, one of my sixth-grade students was talking about the upper hall and called it "the land of giants." Especially at that time, the upper hall was almost exclusively eighth-grade classes, and his description captures perfectly the physical difference between sixth and eighth graders.
I have spent almost my entire nine-year tenure at Eisenhower teaching sixth graders. I certainly did not ever plan to do this. In fact, after doing my student teaching with high school seniors, I was convinced that I wanted to spend my career with seniors. As chance would have it, I ended up here teaching students half the age of the students I wanted to work with.
I have truly grown to appreciate sixth graders and their strengths and weaknesses; they are just as much a challenge and pleasure as seniors. I have become very comfortable with the sixth grade, and I have almost forgotten what older students are like.
This year, however, I find myself partially in "the land of giants." In addition to sixth grade, I have two eighth-grade classes. My immediate reaction the first day of class was to marvel, like my former student, at the size of these young adults. Some were even students I had had as sixth graders. At five feet seven inches, I'm not tall, but I have always been physically bigger than most of my sixth graders. Now most of my eighth graders are bigger than I am.
The physical differences are but a very small part of the metamorphosis that occurs between the beginning and end of middle school. I would wager that if I were blindfolded and put in a room filled with either sixth or eighth graders, I would be able to quickly figure out the grade level by simply listening . The way these two groups of students interact, the way they use language, and the level of thinking are markedly different.
My mother-in-law is a retired high-school English teacher, and she has always maintained that every seven years or so a teacher should change grade levels, subjects, or schools. I have to agree with my mother-in-law's advice--a change is truly beneficial. I genuinely like my eighth graders and could happily spend the next seven years teaching eighth grade. The land of giants is a fascinating place.
Robert Fulgham Is Wrong!
December/January 1999
A few years ago Robert Fulgham, a retired Unitarian minister, wrote a much-quoted little essay in which he claimed that all he really needed to know he learned in kindergarten. There is much wisdom in Fulgham's piece, but I think that the assumption that schools teach everything that people really need to know is wrong.
Schools can teach many, many things; however, most of the really important things are learned long before a child goes to kindergarten. This thought came to me as I watched my two-month-old son, Adam, the other evening. In just eight short weeks, that's about one half of one percent of his life, he has already learned some of the most important lessons in life.
Lesson One: Practice. When babies are born they really have no idea that they have these things called arms and legs attached to their bodies. After much flailing about and hitting himself in the face a good number of times, Adam has discovered that he can control his little hand and is almost able with 100 percent accuracy to get his Lilliputian thumb into his mouth. Eight weeks it took to master this skill.
Too many students today think that everything should come easily, that life should be like a remote control to a TV: just push a button and a new, more exciting program is there to entertain. The real world takes practice.
Lesson Two: Cry. The most effective way a baby has to communicate is to cry . The usual solution to a cry from Adam is to fill his little stomach with high-calorie, high-fat liquid. Other times it's not food but some other physical need.
Life is full of situations where metaphorically people need to cry. Even a cursory survey of the world reveals a host of injustices that need attention. We can't cry out for every wrong, but we should "cry" when something significant needs attention.
Lesson Three: Smile. The power of a smile is amazing. People will stop what they are doing and drop everything when they get a smile from Adam. A twelve-pound baby can enthrall an adult with this simple facial gesture.
Politeness and civility are all too often absent in our fast-paced world. We need to remember the disarming smile of an infant when we are faced with a situation which could bring forth a less-than-civil reaction. Smile and the world smiles back.
Kindergarten and the ensuing grades are great places to learn things, but everything we really need to know we learned long before we walked in the schoolhouse door.
Turtles, Turtles, Turtles!
October 1998
Aesop, that fabled teller of stories, has a wonderful version of how the turtle got its shell. Zeus, we are told, invited all of the animals to his wedding. The turtle, however, failed to attend the festivities. When Zeus tracked the reluctant guest down, the turtle complained that he could not stand to leave his home. Zeus was so angered by this poor excuse that he cursed the turtle to carry its home upon its back for the remainder of its days.
This wonderful story, alas, is all too relevant to student life at Eisenhower. During any passing period, hundreds of Eisenhower "turtles" travel the halls carrying their homes with them in the form of huge backpacks. I have even been inadvertently broadsided by these backpacks as I stand guard at my door during passing periods.
I think I understand some of the motivation that students have to carry everything they could possible need in a given day with them in a backpack. My first year at Eisenhower I was in three different classrooms and had to use the teachers' lounge during my preparation period. I, too, carried every possible supply in my trusty briefcase. I could not always count on any given room having sufficient supplies of chalk or staples--not to mention the books, papers, and teacher paraphernalia needed for teaching each day.
Students, however, usually need at most a textbook, pen and pencil, and a spiral for each class. In spite of this, all too often they bring every possible text and supply to every class. This is clearly not necessary. School lockers provide a wonderful place to store materials that are not needed each period. In fact, I would wager that a quick visit to the locker before school, at lunch, and after school could cut down the average weight of a backpack by at least 50%. It seems to me that losing ten pounds from a twenty-pound backpack would be worth a few trips to a locker.
Somehow I get the feeling that Zeus may be looking down on us from Mount Olympus and smiling wryly because his curse of long ago is still haunting some of those mortal beings down on Earth. There really in no reason for any student to become a human turtle. Some careful planning and judicious use of the locker can avoid the need to carry every possible item to every class. It's time to stand up to Zeus and empty those backpacks!