Eduholic

I know I’m supposed to keep ‘em under control, but now and then I like to whip kids into a frenzy. A constructive one, of course. It’s a release of psychic energy we all need, the closest thing you can get away with outside the xerox room to dancing nude around a fire beneath a full moon.

One of those days happened recently on the last day of the quarter, the conclusion of a five-books-at-one-time unit called Epic X discussed here in a two previous posts. All reads were one-offs from Beowulf, which we’d battled through as a class: Michael Crichton’s The 13th Warrior, Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha, T.H. White’s Once and Future King, John Gardener’s Grendel, and Kamala Markandaya’s Nectar in a Sieve.

I wasn’t exactly planning Mardi Gras in November, I confess. But as my teaching partner Jen and I surveyed the room about an hour into the eXperience, I realized the thing had taken on a life of its own. Picture a fender bender between a frat party and a debate team.

Actually, picture this. Boys dressed like extras from “The 300” were wrestling over spilled grog tankards near a Bedouin tent (the grog was soda; the tent was an 8-person dome with a sheet thrown over it). Graceful Indian girls nearby were leading classmates in meditation, the hum of their “Ommmmm” undisturbed by the chaotic next-door neighbors. A helpful group member sprinkled rose water on the cross-legged savants, among them a 6’4” football player dressed as a knight.

Behind them, a girl with ant antennae and an identification number on her chest stood near a boy in a dress and a blonde wig (she was one of the Wart’s “teachers”; he claimed to be Morgan LeFay). They were making classmates who couldn’t pass a quiz composed of medieval riddles eat dirt (brownies crumbled up in cups). Nearby, kids jousted with pool noodles, bit the little heads off cookies representing hapless Danes, or slaved in a tannery to earn tickets for spicy plates of lemon rice.

The assignment was based on one of my favorite questions: How can kids hold learning in their hands? Make the books come alive, I challenged them. Their “X” had to appeal to all five senses and be interactive, use text and teach the book. A few broad strokes and get out of the way. Sometimes, it’s my favorite way to teach. Or not, you could say. Unteaching, I sometimes call it.

There was structure to the madness. Each student carried a graphic organizer and responsibility for evaluating one peer. On my best 8.5 x 11” line drawing of a face giggling into its hand, they had to record notes in the area of the nose about how their partner’s X incorporated the sense of smell and write on the fingers about how it appealed to the sense of touch. Questions on the back made them articulate what they learned about the book’s themes and the author’s use of language, as well as interview their friend to assess what she had done to help the group prepare.

Undocumented student achievement may have occurred. Adding to the general confusion, at the end of the X every student walked out the door with an A, though all they knew at the time was that they’d made it to a four day weekend.

Posted by Emmet Rosenfeld at 4:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

“Are you nervous,” asked my 3-year old son, with all the right emotion but maybe the wrong words as I sat on the couch in the depths of post-blast blues last Friday.
“Nervous about what?” I asked.
“The board went down,” he said, repeating more or less what my wife had explained to him and his brother in the car on the way home.
“Yes, pal, I’m nervous that the board went down.”
“Okay, I’ll fix it,” he said confidently, and went off to find his red and blue plastic hammer. I’m pretty sure he was picturing a seesaw that had fallen off its fulcrum, a not entirely inaccurate image.

The half-life for fragility and self-pity for a teacher is one week-end, because you have to get back up in front of the class Monday. For dads, it shrinks to a single evening pass good for skipping bath time while madly typing away the pain on the laptop.

I’d be lying if I said I was entirely over the news that a year’s worth of work will not be rewarded with the cash money I had hoped would make this a special Chrismahannuka. But in a relatively compressed time I’ve moved through a remarkable outpouring of grief, affirming emails, and professional dialogue that has made this experience, in ways that NBPTS never imagined, one of the richest in my professional life.

I can’t possibly thank everyone who has reminded me that my worth as a teacher is not the sum of a Very Hard Test. But I can and will keep blogging this thing, because even though I was unable to link my own writing to student achievement to the satisfaction of NBPTS, I am still convinced that putting myself out there and giving other teachers a place to talk is one of the most important things I do as a professional.

Bemoaning the lack of feedback is a common refrain amongst us almosts, but there is a party line, ably presented by a colleague on a listserv who has allowed me to reprint her responses to my criticism of this aspect of the program. She articulates it with more clarity and compassion than anyone I know:

[Emmet] I find that the "no feedback" policy walks a line I didn't know existed between Zen and sanctimony. I like the idea that there are many ways to get it right, but I also would NEVER in my own practice with students give a huge year-long assignment, or any significant assignment for that matter, without providing a lot of chances for coaching, low-risk practice, and improvement. If we claim to be master teachers, why are we creating an assessment that flies in the face of what we know about real learning? Maybe we should be honest and say that there are too many tests to grade and we couldn't possibly get through them if we had to tell everyone where they gained or lost points.

#3) The scoring process does not provide any product that would tell candidates what was missing or wrong. There are no points or checklists. The evidence presented is scored holistically. The rubric for scoring is given to candidates in their portfolio materials. The
question is the same for every entry: is the evidence provided clear, consistent and onvincing proof that the candidate is meeting the standards? A good candidate support program will let candidates know--in advance--that they will not be receiving feedback, and why.

With due respect to Nancy, who went to lengths that only a master teacher would in responding to me on list and off, for me the argument that Natty Boards is not professional development and therefore shouldn’t give better feedback is specious. It demands the commitment of a graduate program, and its advocates claim that certifying is a transformative experience. What’s more, a common piece of encouragement heard by me and other almosts is: Stick with it-- this is a three-year process. Many do pass on their second or (god bless ‘em) third try. How can a test last three years?

Another common consolation I’ve heard is: You’re a great teacher, and you foster lots of student achievement. You just didn’t show it in your entry and your evidence. This begs the question, of course, about what the test measures: my teaching ability or my ability to show them my teaching ability in a certain way. Since getting better at the latter will make me sixty grand (and because I’m more stubborn than hurt) here’s what I plan to do.

Go for it. But bass-ackwards.
No more worrying about core propositions or standards or (pshaw) good writing. From here on in, it’s all about Student Achievement. I will rebuild Entry 4 not based on the professional achievements outside the classroom that are truly the most meaningful to me—building the canoe, my association with the writing project, publishing this blog-- at least, not simply because they are meaningful to me.

Instead, I will include accomplishments only based on examples of student achievement that I know can be documented in convincing NBPTS fashion. If I can still include my work as a writer, great. If instead I have to keep a communication log of the hundreds of parent contacts that I make without a second thought during the course of a normal school year, so be it. I’ll make the stinking list. It isn’t sexy, it isn’t the above-and-beyond that makes me Teacherman. It’s just the job. I wish I’d figured out earlier that lowering my expectations for what this Test-and-not-a-process can be is what it takes to summit.

Posted by Emmet Rosenfeld at 5:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

In this post I’m supposed to tell you about how I got kids to dress up like gladiators and chant Om as they brought books to life in our recent “Epic X” unit, but I need to interrupt the regularly scheduled broadcast to bring you this (heart-) breaking news…

I failed.

National Board scores were released online to candidates today and my score of 265 missed the passing score of 275 by 10 points. Some Eduholic readers may have missed the year of blood, sweat and aggravation that was chronicled in this blog’s predecessor, “Certifiable?”, where I wrote about my attempt to scale the NBPTS mountain in pursuit of National Board Certification. Over the course of 67 posts I described the excruciating process of completing a four-entry portfolio that included videotapes of my teaching, and finally taking a day long test at a computer center.

So, HOW does it make me FEEL?

First, there’s the emotional impact. Sort of like a huge fist has been slammed into the solar plexus of my teaching career and it’s down on the canvas, listening to the bright lights spinning like a merry-go-round and watching the dull roar of the crowd like an ocean in the distance.

I’m more or less writing from that place right now, but let me try to stagger back to my corner and answer HOW it makes me feel that way. Here are the numbers.

On each of the four portfolio entries, one can score up to 4 points. Each is weighted at 16% of the total (except one at 12%), and “scaled” before becoming part of the final score; for comparison, I got 50 points on my best entry and 12 points on my worst. My highest score, 3.125, was on “Instructional Analysis: Small Groups,” which was one of the videotaped classes where kids were working on a project to represent the structure of novels with 3-dimensional models. My lowest score was on “Documented Accomplishments: Contributions to Student Learning.” On this I got a 1 out of 4.

Let’s disregard, for a moment, my year-long project building a dugout canoe with tenth graders that ended up on the National Mall, my work as a teacher of teachers at George Mason University, and my nationally published writing about education. (After all, NBPTS did.) 1 out of 4 pretty much means you don’t have a pulse.

On page 42 of the 67-page guide one has to download just to interpret these scores, there is a page-long paragraph of the sort that I would never accept in a student paper which catalogs the woes of one-ness: “little or no evidence that the strategies are effective in engaging parents and other interested adults… little or no evidence that the teacher has strengthened his teaching practice through professional development… little or no evidence of the teacher’s ability to impact student learning through work with colleagues, professionals, families, and the community, and as a learner.”

Clearly, either I or the National Board need to be sued for malpractice.

One nagging suspicion is that they rejected all the evidence I did submit because of a procedural glitch. I redacted identifying information with whiteout in an effort to follow their byzantine directions and later found out I shouldn’t have. I admit it’s far more comforting at this point to think that punctilious bureaucracy is at fault rather than the alternative: I suck as a teacher.

I’m now in the locker room and the haze is starting to lift. Back to the judges’ scorecards. In addition to the portfolio, there was the computer test. There were six essays there, again each earning up to 4 points, but each only weighted at 6.6% of the total. So, in summary, the portfolio was worth 60 % of the total, and the essays 40%.

My highest essay score was a 4, on “literary analysis.” My lowest was a 2, on “teaching writing.” Oddly, I have masters degree in the latter. Do me a favor and don’t tell the school district that hired me last week to present at their inservice on teaching nonfiction writing about that second score. If only to make myself feel better, here’s an email from their staff development coordinator (which is an example of the sort of thing that I thought might constitute “evidence” for Entry 1):

Emmet - Thanks again for coming. Just a quick note with some feedback from evaluations.
-I plan to use the information gained.
- I'll use this new technique in class tomorrow.
-I would like to use this for short stories.
-The levels of understanding is applicable
-I can use this in my class
Well, you get the idea. Great presentation. Wish I had made it to this.
Jane and Steve
Thanks

I guess I need to take a deep breath and let it all soak in. Part of me just wants to crawl under a rock, but the greater part remembers the ambivalence I felt throughout last year and is saying, in a kind but firm voice, I told you so.

The little voice inside goes on: It was never you, and you knew it. You did your best to jump through the hoops because you wanted desperately to make $60,000 extra over the next ten years, but you gave a way a little piece of yourself every time you sat down with that fricking 300-page instruction manual and tried to translate the magic from your classroom into a voiceless narrative based on those ridiculously convoluted standards.

Hmm, thanks little voice. Maybe you’re right. Or -- and let me anticipate the comments from National Boardists I know my stance will provoke—maybe I’m a prima donna who’s had his sails trimmed and can use this as a learning experience to become a better teacher.

They could be right, I guess. I’m just not sure how much more self-reflection I can take. I might try to recoup the countless hours and resubmit an entry or two next year. Going broke a week into each pay period can foster that sort of resilience. Right now, I just feel like there’s spit up in my mouth. I want beer.

But, first things first. 7th period starts in five minutes and we’re beginning a unit featuring database research in which kids will access primary source documents and assume the character of a historical figure from one of four eras, then debate the importance of his impact on people living in that time and place. I know, I know, I’m pretty much just doing it for my own selfish enjoyment. But, what the heck— maybe we’ll get lucky on the way and stumble across some student learning.

Posted by Emmet Rosenfeld at 3:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (42)

or, Spinning Plates II

Recently, my tenth graders finished reading novels in small groups, and this is the second of what will probably be three posts in which I share ideas for managing the class when every kid is not reading the same book at the same time. Last week, I described how kids chose books and what they did as they read. This week, I will continue talking about what they did as they read and tell about one of the assessments, called a “fishbowl.” You’ll have to wait until next week to hear you about the grand finale, “The Epic X”, featuring meditating marauders and knights with noodles.

First, an aside on pacing. Instead of the scaffolded community conversation that a one book approach allows (“Read Chapter 3 for next class,”) I encouraged kids to read at their own pace… but fast. In part this was to fit the time available before the end of the quarter, but I also sometimes like to encourage a pace close to, if not quite the same as, one might use for pleasure reading. When I pick up a good book, I read it fairly continually over the course of a week or two. What I don’t do is slow down to a crawl while completing a lot of study questions or lengthy journal responses.

There’s something about the fast lonely gate one adopts while traveling through a book, like a brisk walk in the countryside, that I intuitively sense, as a reader and as a teacher, has value. One covers ground quickly while absorbed in the world of the story and is able to retain significant memories of the trip quite well. Minute details afforded by close reading fall by the wayside, but the big picture, the feel of the book as a whole, is retained. Sometimes I regret that in moving as slowly as we tend to do through a text with students, we lose that sense of dipping into another world.

What they did as they read (part II): Golden Apples
Back to earth. They had to marshall some of those memories, so I asked them to gather six “golden apples,” or conversation starters, each a sentence to a paragraph in length. They could be Big Questions, or just things that jumped out as they read. At least one of the apples was to relate to the author’s use of language. Three were to include quotes from or specific references to the text with cites. I asked them to avoid harvesting apples only after they were done; they could gather some apples as they read without slowing down much by using sticky notes.

Assessment (part I): Triple Fishbowls
This is not something I’ve taken from Cat in the Hat, although maybe his balancing act involving a cake, an umbrella, and a nervous fish in a bowl is a better metaphor for what happened then spinning plates.

A fishbowl is a variation on the Socratic Seminar that I define as an observed conversation. Some kids sit in the middle talking about their book: these are the fish. The rest of the class sits at their desks in a circle that surrounds the inner group: these observers constitute the bowl. The trick with a fishbowl is to define clearly for both fish and bowl what they should do during the process.

Because I had five books but didn’t want to sit through five fishbowls, I decided to do three fishbowls at once (the book that had the most kids reading it was divided into two groups). Since my students are math wizards, I was able to draw a diagram on the board that looked like three donuts with square holes and they set up the desks accordingly.

The fish had the easy job. They were asked to talk about their book for twenty minutes, using Golden Apples to keep the conversation going. (Fortunately the metaphor police didn’t show up as I switched back and forth between apples and fish while introducing the process.) We talked briefly about different things to do with apples, ie, different ways one could participate in a conversation, including: give an apple (initiate, ask questions); bite an apple (answer); and pass an apple (draw others into the conversation).

The bowl had a harder job. Each kid on the outside had to watch one kid on the inside in particular, and while trying to follow the content of the conversation as a whole, focus on their partner’s apple behaviors. I gave them a handout to help that included a checklist and a place for notes. I also let the fish and the bowl talk for five minutes before the fishbowl started so the bowl could get some basics of character and plot about the book they were going to hear talked about.

The fishbowls, once underway, were a success. Kids inside had a ton to say. The bowl was a bit confused, at times, but was able to observe behaviors and give feedback to their partners. At the end, I asked the fish to write for five minutes about the best thing their group talked about, and the bowl to write about how the book they’d heard observed compared with their own. After that, we switched places. The bowl became the fish and the fish became the bowl (try that, Dr. Seuss).

Overall, this was very successful at several levels. Kids enjoyed their talks and got a deeper understanding of the book. They became aware of and practiced communication skills. And, with the evaluation at the end (see below), most of the grading was taken care of. I even got feedback from kids to make it better next time: make sure the bowl sits close enough to the fish to hear easily, give more background info to the bowl, leave more time for the discussion, and consider doing this as a prep activity to write a paper.

If it all sounds rather complicated, that’s because it was. Don’t try it at home. If you’re going to do a fishbowl, do just one at a time. And the bowl will be more engaged if you start with a book that everyone’s read together (I know, I know…just do what I say, not what I do). An easy way to modify this activity for a whole class reading the same book, for example, might be to have one fishbowl a week with each group focusing on that week’s chapters.

Fortunately, my kids are used to the odd things I make them do in class now. So none of the plates fell and broke, thankfully avoiding the unpleasant scene of fish flopping on the floor gasping for water. Following are materials for before apple-picking (planning notes), during apple-picking (handout for students, pp 1-2), and after apple-picking (evaluation).

Before apple-picking (planning notes)
1. Process: Discuss behaviors in a conversation...
Give an apple (initiate)
Take a bite of an apple (answer)
Pass an apple (draw in others)
Take a bite of a passed apple (extend)
Chuck an apple (discard)
Watch apples (listen)
Sick of apples (non participatory)

2. Content: Partners from two different books discuss...
Get a quick plot summary
Briefly compare structure, narrative strategy, elephants (RR 1 share)
Check out their apples
Ask them about their typical behaviors in apple talks

During apple-picking (handout for students, page 1)
Directions: Observer (bowl) follows conversation and notes apple behaviors on the chart below, also taking notes on the conversation. Participant (fish) engages actively in conversation.

Name_________________________________
Title/Author ___________________________________________________
Partner ________________________________
T/A __________________________________________________________

1. Note how many times the fish does each behavior.
_____ Give an apple (initiate, ask ?s)
_____ Bite an apple (answer)
_____ Pass an apple (draw in others)
_____ Bite a passed apple (extend)
_____ Chuck an apple (discard)
_____ Watch apples (listen)
_____ Sick of apples (non participatory)

2. Take notes on what is talked about in the circle.

During apple-picking (handout for students, page 2)
Comparing Epic X Novels

Directions: Compare your book and your partner’s book...
Use of language
Narrative strategy
Structure
Big ideas: themes/ meaning

After apple-picking (evaluation)

_____Apples (25)
6 Golden Apples, one sentence to one paragraph in length, spanning the book.
At least three must include quotes from or specific references to the text with cites.
Big Questions, observations, and at least one that relates to the author’s use of language.

_____Fish (50)
What was the most interesting thread in the conversation? How did this change your thinking about the book?
Comment on your behaviors in the circle, based on data and feedback from your partner. Rate your participation in the circle as high/middle/low and explain.

_____Bowl (25)
What was interesting to you in the conversation?
What aspect of the book you “bowled” was most similar to your own? What aspect was most different?

_____ TOTAL (100)

Bonus questions: Did you like this activity? What worked well or didn’t? How could it be improved?

Posted by Emmet Rosenfeld at 4:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)