Eduholic

“I can stop talking about teaching whenever I want to,” claims educator-writer Emmet Rosenfeld, who spends much of his time—you guessed it—thinking and talking about teaching. A former English teacher at the renowned Thomas Jefferson High School for Science and Technology in Alexandria, Va., Rosenfeld has recently transitioned to a position as English teacher and Dean of Students at the Congressional Schools of Virginia in Falls Church, Va. Until he comes to terms with his Education Problem, enjoy this wide-ranging blog on teaching and learning in his classroom and beyond.

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August 29, 2008

Detention Detente

In my new job as Dean of Students, one of my concerns is discipline. Fielding questions from faculty and discussions with my new boss have helped crystalize a philosophy about an aspect of school life that, as a classroom teacher exclusively, I never had to think that much about.

To foster a consistent and effective school-wide system of discipline, we will talk about proactive strategies on an ongoing basis. Teachers should feel comfortable that they have the resources they need to help children learn to manage their own behavior effectively, thus creating a shared classroom environment where students can learn and teachers can teach under positive, safe conditions.

That said, detention is in the tool box but would only be used at the end of a long chain of incrementally escalating interventions, and in a context where relationships have been purposefully built by the teacher.

The backdrop for this proactive stance is our pedagogy itself. We don’t teach with our back to the room and turn around to find Johnny hitting Suzie; we are engaged with our students, using the Smartboard and interacting in such a way that allows proximity (I can tap Johnny’s paper to redirect his eyes, or touch Suzie’s shoulder to remind her about the “count to ten” strategy we discussed earlier).

The relationships teachers build with students are also important. We differentiate when appropriate to keep kids fully engaged, and know students well enough to anticipate, or at least respond with a prompt correction, to off-task behavior. We are explicit about and teach behaviors as well as academic skills (“This is what I expect when we go to the assembly,”); we understand from a developmental point of view what our kids can and should do at their age and allow for age-appropriate responses and mistakes. In short, there is a plan.

With heightened awareness of students and behaviors comes the ability to anticipate trouble spots (transitions, kids who can’t concentrate well when they sit near each other, etc). Other relationships also help us manage trouble spots: these are the connections we’ve built with parents, what we call the Family-School Partnership. Hopefully after a number of positive interactions, we can feel comfortable having more difficult conversations with parents, enlisting their help where appropriate to correct behaviors or limit rewards.

Detention itself enters the picture as a form of time-out. It is a removal from normal school life, and is the logical consequence for repeatedly transgressing agreed upon limits. By logical consequence I mean it is the result we impose in the rule-based community of our school that is analogous to the natural consequences one might encounter in the world beyond our walls. Touching hot things hurts; of course we want to protect kids from harm, but the lesson teaches itself. Consistently defying behavioral norms also hurts: that is the message of detention. The pain is removal from the group and the privileges—to learn, to have fun, to play—that come with it.

Detention should not be assigned in anger or without a progression of proactive steps starting at the classroom level. As Dean, I hope to become involved with or at least aware of this escalation well before its terminal point. I can help teachers in discussing strategies along the way, and by talking to students who don’t seem to be responding to classroom interventions. This conversation might be informal, if the situation warrants. When a teacher feels the need to escalate consequences in a more serious way, an Honor Code Referral is appropriate.

An Honor Code Referral is an official intervention in which a student will engage in a reflective exercise under the supervision of the Dean, in writing or orally, that makes explicit how their actions have violated the Honor Code. Students will be asked to consider the way in which their actions have affected others, and to frame an apology of words and an apology of action. Last, appropriate logical consequences will be established should the infraction recur.

The only recourse after temporary removal from school life is a longer removal from school life, such as suspension. Therefore, of fundamental importance is the idea of a continuum of responses grounded in the context of a well-managed classroom where kids engage not only in learning but in monitoring their own behavior. With clear communication of expectations to the student, partnership with families, and open lines between teacher and Dean, in most cases detention won’t be needed. This approach keeps students at the center, and makes teaching and learning the main thing.


August 2, 2008

Diving into Differentiation

In a lounge chair by the pool the other day I was browsing Chip Wood’s Yardsticks, our school’s summer read for staff and parents. With more than three decades as an educator under his belt, this New England-based elementary principal knows a thing or two about kids between the ages of 4-14. He not only makes a compelling case for developmentalism in schools, he provides a manual for each age covering growth patterns (physical to cognitive), in-classroom concerns (fine and gross motor ability, social-emotional behavior), and thoughts on curriculum (the three R’s plus age-appropriate themes).

Of course, one size never fits all. Looking up your child in Yardsticks might result in a few “Aha’s” and also a couple, “Ehh, not really’s.” The power in a developmental approach is recognizing that a kid can be younger or older than his chronological age in various categories, spot on in others. Real kids are messy, and I don’t just mean when they eat. That's challenging for parents, and sometimes downright confounding for classroom teachers.

"What if my 8th graders are all over the map this year," I wondered. "How am I supposed to teach the same accelerated curriculum to a bunch of kids with different aptitudes and abilities?" My thoughts were interupted as my two sons dragged me into the pool.

With a season under his belt as a Bluefish (the same swim team I grew up on) my 7-year old has learned his strokes pretty well. He went from being scared to attend practice at the start of the season to swimming lengths of the pool in freestyle and breaststroke in meets by the end. The one thing he never quite learned to do, like a lot of the kids in his age group, was dive.

Watching 8-and-unders start a race brings a collective wince to the crowd. The rail-thin boys freeze in their stances before the electronic beep, goggled up like beetles. Then with a surge they fling themselves forward into perfect belly-flops before madly starting to paddle towards the other end, lifting their heads every couple strokes to look around at the kids in adjacent lanes as the cheers of the crowd wash over them.

My 4-year old, on the other hand, picked the last day of the season to finally let go of the lip of the pool to which he’d clung all summer. Now he can do a couple strokes of doggy paddle. I wouldn’t throw him into the deep end yet, but he's definitely crossed a threshold. (It’s true there are kids younger than he who can swim a crawl stroke; they don’t all seem to get it at the same time.)

What Will lacks in water confidence, he makes up for in brio. His favorite pool game with dad is to leap off the wall into my outstretched arms, dunking under the water for just a second and coming up spluttering, “Again!” He can do this about as many times as a young black lab will fetch a tennis ball chucked into a river.

So, there I was with both boys, Yardsticks set aside safely out of the splash zone. Each vied for my attention; each wanted to do, and was capable of doing, different things in the water. Because Will’s range was limited, we were stuck on the steps. A noodle floated nearby and without thinking, I grabbed it and held it on the surface of the water a few feet away.

"Hey Jack," I called to my diving-challenged son, "Grab this!" Extending his body in a near perfect dive, he lunged.

“I got it!” he yelled. He got it four more times in a row, laughing and fearless, before I told him that what he was doing looked a lot like diving. He glowed from the sense of accomplishment and the praise.

Meanwhile, Will was getting antsy. “My turn, my turn!” he yelled, assuming his position like a paratrooper on the edge of the pool. “Closer, closer,” he squealed, as I tried to inch away. When I was in the right spot, he leapt, with the usual abandon. We touched hands as he went under, and by the time he popped up, I’d moved back a few feet further away from the steps.

“Push me, push me!” he squealed, and I sent him towards the steps with a whoosh. He paddled madly in a pantomime of swimming, going down quicker than forward but nevertheless gaining the steps. (Reread the last couple paragraphs four more times then move on).

While Will was jumping and sort of swimming, Jack had been patiently practicing his new technique. “Okay, five turns for Jack now,” I said to Will. He didn't want to stop the game. “Then you get five more," I bargained. "And, you can help Jack-- you be the starter.”

Excited, Will took over the job of reciting the mantra: “Swimmers, take your mark…go.” With each try, I gave Jack a little feedback: “Great job—tuck your chin a little more when you throw your arms up. Like this. Let me see you do it.”

With direct, specific coaching, his dive got neater almost every time. Before we knew it, it was Will’s turn again (do “Will was getting antsy” five more times, then proceed).

The next time Jack dived and popped up asking, “How was that one?”
I replied without thinking, “8.8.”
“Out of 10?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, “you lifted your head at the end.”
“I know,” he said. A new wrinkle to the game was born. An Olympic rating system appealed to Jack's 7-year old sense of competition, especially as his scores kept climbing.

During Will's next turn, Jack went back to practicing.
"What was that one?" he asked once.
"I don't rate practice dives," I said.

We jumped and dived until the boys lips turned blue, then returned to our towels. "You guys did great, today," I said. And I meant it. Through engaging challenges targeted to each kid's age, coupled with timely specific feedback and low-stakes practice, each had made real strides.

I guess they do come with directions after all, I thought, slipping the half-read volume into the pool bag. If I keep reading Yardsticks, I bet I can figure out how to do the same thing in the classroom this year with my 8th graders.


Emmet Rosenfeld

Emmet Rosenfeld.

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