Mohegan Lake, New York

The education aisle inside Barnes and Noble

The imminent approach of another school season has expanded space traditionally allocated to educational books and study aides. It's a nice feeling to see books about math, science, geography, and reading and writing encroach upon the New Age and Metaphysical aisle. A wandering and aging hippie is squeezed between a toddler pulling picture books from a bottom shelf and a woman perusing SAT study guides. The toddler has assembled a small pyramid of books about farm animals near the hippie's feet. The New Age disciple was holding a book titled How to Harness the Energy of the Pyramids when he almost tripped over the child's cellulous model. He walked away feeling perturbed and probably a little more enlightened to life's everyday ironies.

I am hoping to find a few good books about how to better teach students afflicted with emotional and learning disabilities. I have been away from my classroom for one year and feel as though it's been a thousand centuries.

I glance at the overstocked bookshelves and see an old friend, Teacher Tales. The book's brightly colored red and yellow jacket includes the following guarantee: Foreword by Anthony J. Mullen, 2009 National Teacher of the Year. A few copies of the book are turned around and I see a glossy picture of President Obama handing me a glass apple.

"You look familiar," a lady said. She held a copy of The Princeton Review in her left hand.

I turned around and noticed that she was staring over my shoulders, directly at the picture of the president and me on the back cover.

"Are you a teacher?" I asked.

"No-but I recognize your face."

Could this be a brief minor celebrity moment? I positioned myself closer to the image of the president and me, hoping to narrow the synapse between my face and what she saw on the back cover of the book.

"Oh my gosh!" she exclaimed. "Now I know who you are!" She stared directly at the picture of the president and me.

"Yes, that's me on the back of the book," I replied, trying not to appear too proud.

"Huh?" she asked.

I pointed to the back of the Teacher Tales book. She appeared bewildered and took a step backward.

"You were my son's baseball coach over ten years ago. Do you remember David Perelman?"

I now joined company with the aging hippie and felt a little more enlightened to life's everyday ironies.

Yet the mother of a young boy I coached over a decade ago reminded me why I was inside a Barnes and Noble bookstore in the first place. I was here to close a door gently.

I am leaving a room filled with the many kind people and peaceful places I encountered while traveling as the 2009 National Teacher of the Year. It is not an easy task to close the door to this room and to say goodbye. The room is filled with love and laughter and life, but the past does not welcome intruders and deserves a break from my prodding thoughts.

I write my last blog burdened with a heavy heart. I feel only sadness when I think about all the kind people I have met and will probably never see again, and I start to believe that memory must be a gift from a vindictive god.

I dream about the kind people and peaceful places often, but the colors are beginning to fade and I strain to listen to muffled voices. Time and distance begin to cast shadows over the images and still the echo of friends. I feel alone.

I must close the door gently because a school bell is ringing and a classroom filled with so many troubled teenagers awaits my return. We need each other and I look forward to seeing them soon. Writing for Teacher Magazine has been a privilege and helped soothe the idleness and loneliness of too much traveling, but the school bell is ringing and I must not look back upon the closing door.

I am often asked, "What did you learn as the National Teacher of the Year?" Was it Enlightenment? Transformation? Worldliness? Nah. I learned that yesterday's problems are still with us today and despite inept miscalculations by politicians and bureaucrats that threaten the very foundation of public education, teachers have never waived. It is teachers who will somehow turn defeat into victory and not allow Race to the Top carpetbaggers to grab too much booty.

I learned that despite the paternalism practiced by politicians, parents are more astute about educational issues than previously assumed by education officials. Parents know what is best for their children and they want a louder voice in any dialogue about their child's education. Parents cannot be demonized and manipulated in the same fashion as teachers.

But most of all, I was reminded of the beauty of teachers.

Thank you for showing me your beauty and kindred spirit.

A school bell is ringing. I must close a door gently now and answer its call.

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Hershey Park
Hershey, Pennsylvania

The California sea lion lay prostrate on the wet concrete floor. It would not jump through the circular hoop. The animal trainer removed a small herring from a plastic pail and waved it at the pup. Nothing.

"Why doesn't the sea lion jump through the hoop?" a young boy asked his mother.

"I'm not sure, "she replied. "Maybe he doesn't feel well."

The young woman dressed in khaki pants and shirt reminded the crowd that "animals can be funny sometimes." She quickly moved toward the animal and placed the herring in front of its canine face. After allowing the sea lion a few seconds to savor the fish, she headed back to the opposite side of the hoop. The animal declined to perform for the trainer and was shuffled off back stage. A large adult male then took center stage and walked forward and backward through the hoop. He even waved to the crowd when given a second herring.

I am trying to enjoy a friendly marine animal show but my mind wanders to RTTT. The latest round of states jumping through hoops to perform for the Department of Education is taking place and a nation of school children is waiting to learn which state will receive the coveted herrings. The whole show would be amusing to watch if equitable funding for education was not involved.

The animal trainer returns to the stage to close the show. She is accompanied by two seals and the ham of the show-the adult sea lion. The audience is reminded that seals and sea lions are wild creatures and cautioned not to approach these types of animals in their natural habitats.

Teachers by nature are wild creatures too. And they are not readily adaptable to jumping through hoops. Most teachers would prefer to lay prostrate rather than perform for a new copy machine or set of textbooks, but that does not mean that teachers are docile or not willing to fight for what is right for their students. I wonder if politicians are warned not to approach teachers in their natural habit, the classroom. To paraphrase the sea lion trainer, "teachers can be funny sometimes."

This grand comedy known as Race to the Top is doing more to widen the gap between have and have not states than any previous piece of educational legislation. We are a nation racing against itself in an arena designed by politicians who enjoy dangling carrots. What a disgrace.

Cheers to the young sea lion shuffled backstage.

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The 16th Street Mall

Denver, Colorado

How fortunate we are as a species to have arteries that run deeper than veins.

The young lady was handing out free copies of The Homeless News on the corner of Stout Street and 16th Street when I noticed the slightly raised red lines that crisscrossed her wrists. It is a good thing that a sheath of ligaments and fibrous tissue is layered between the veins and arteries of our wrists because such an aegis dulls the razor's edge. Suicide should not been an easy task for a troubled mind.

A few people exiting the local CVS stop to give the young lady some spare change. Most refused the free newspaper.

The urban nomad appeared to be having a good morning until an older man approached her and whispered something into her ear. His arms are completely covered with tattoos and his face perforated with piercings. A combination human cartoon and pin cushion. She handed him the morning's earnings and he walked away.

The young lady reminded me of a former student I once taught. She too was a cutter and eventually drifted to some nameless city. She claimed that it felt good to cut her wrists. What she really meant to express was not so perverse or callous. She cut her wrists because the pain of the razor's edge provided a temporary relief from a far greater emotional pain that she could not release. But such an explanation would require too much dialogue from a young lady silenced by indifferent parents.

The majority of the students afflicted with emotional disabilities do not believe the meek shall inherit the earth. They live their lives undisturbed by the common pleasantries shared by happy families and friends. Leo Tolstoy once wrote about these types of people when he observed that happy families are all alike but unhappy families are unhappy in their own way. Each of my students is unhappy in their own way and all face an uncertain future.

What's a teacher to do?

Teenage depression and suicide has been on the rise in the United States and schools are replacing guidance counselors and social workers with additional math and science classes. Maybe we could incorporate the statistics and etiology of this disease in the curriculum of these classes?

Or should we seek the counsel of poets and sages? Literature is filled with tales of melancholy but even the best blend of vowels and consonants fail to elicit the true depth of human misery.

What about science? Doctors and researchers have recognized depression as a disease rather than dis-ease and use prescription pads to help sooth the pain. But too many students cannot endure the trial and error of modern medicine or cope with debilitating side effects.

Should teachers address the soul of their students? Philosophers and clerics speak of the incorporeal essence of a person and posit that a transcendent journey is needed to escape the entanglements of daily life. But such abstract thinking requires a composed mind and a bit of leisure time.

What's a teacher to do?

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Denver Convention Center

Colorado

I am a pilgrim in a strange land. A young man dressed in a lime green laptop costume stopped me in front of an exhibition booth. He spoke loudly through an opening where the space key should be. "Are you a digital native or digital immigrant?"

I am only vaguely familiar with the designations made popular by Marc Prensky but I did not want to be labeled by an adult-size foam laptop.

"Neither," I replied. "I'm a digital hybrid."

The laptop froze (literally) for a moment and then rebooted itself. "A digital hybrid?" he asked.

"Yes- I live in both domains," I replied.

The laptop reluctantly accepted my moniker and then graciously gave me a free pen and a glossy brochure promoting mini laptops.

The International Society for Technology and Education has convened in Denver and the large exhibition hall is teeming with thousands of visitors. Digital natives, digital immigrants and a few digital hybrids have gathered from throughout the United States and the world to participate in one of the largest conventions dedicated to integrating technology and education. The ISTE convention is a perfect marriage of entrepreneurs and educators wedded to the belief that technology can help improve teaching and learning.

"Could I interest you in learning more about online learning classes?" a young lady asked.

My head was spinning from all the sights and sounds of the exhibition floor and I was slow to respond. The sales rep probably assumed I was a foreign visitor because she dropped a pocket-size calculator in my ISTE bag and told me to have a nice time in the United States. I probably should update my suits.

One of the tangible benefits of attending a large technology convention is the swag. My bag quickly filled with a collection of pens, flash drives, tee shirts, CDs, DVDs, pocket calculators, and coupons for free coffee and lunch. All I had to do was stop by any booth, open my swag bag, and a smiling person would deposit a small gift or a piece of candy. Technology conventions remind me why Halloween was so much fun.

A teacher from Oklahoma stood next to me and boasted how she was able to get inside the exhibition hall a few minutes before the show opened at 9:30. "I headed straight to an online learning company booth that gives out free wireless mice," she said in a soft but furtive voice. "I got a wireless mouse for all my fifth graders."

She then gave me a sneak preview of the contents of her swollen swag bag. It was filled with dozens of wireless mice and colorful mouse pads. "You should get to the good booths early," she suggested.

I thanked her for the advice and walked away feeling confident that the sooner spirit is still alive and well in the great state of Oklahoma.

A group of middle school children deftly weaved in and out of the crowded exhibition hall. They were wearing yellow shirts with red stripes and moved with the grace and synchronicity of a school of tropical fish. But the truly amazing feat was how they managed to navigate through the crowd while still performing tasks on their cell phones. It was then that I realized how disconnected I was from their world.

The middle school students were living in a world dominated by opposable thumbs and I was living in a world managed by my left and right index fingers. The Age of Opposable Thumbs had usurped the forefingers largely responsible for accessing the Digital Age and I missed this seminal moment.

"Here, try this," a woman's voice said.

I turned around and was face-to-face with an elderly woman who handed me a small plastic device that resembled a child's play phone.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's an integrated classroom management system," she replied. "You can store quiz and test grades, attendance and disciplinary records, and any other data required of your classroom or school."

"How does it work?" I asked.

The octogenarian instructed me to grip the device with my fingers and then use my thumbs to operate the keys. "It's really simple to use," she added. "It's as easy as texting on your Blackberry or I Phone."

I didn't want to admit that I did not own a Blackberry or I Phone. Such a confession would seem sacrilegious in this temple of technology. And I felt a little embarrassed that a woman born before the electric typewriter was created had joined the Age of Opposable Thumbs before me.

But I was learning a few things about myself and the students I teach.

The ISTE convention is a window to the future of education and I was only peeking through the blinds. 21st learning will mandate the use of educational technologies that promote a student-centered rather than teacher-centered classroom. The landscape of contemporary classrooms is being radically transformed by interactive technology tools such as laptops, interactive whiteboards, and an array of digital devices that will forever change the way in which we teach and learn. The group of middle school children I observed showed me how they would like to learn and what I need to do as a teacher to help design a stimulating and productive learning environment. But I'll write more about that topic in my next blog.

Posted by Anthony Mullen at 10:48 AM | Permalink | Leave a comment | Recommend

I finished my official duties as the National Teacher of the Year last week. I ended my journey at the starting point, my classroom, and I could think of no better place to end a pilgrimage of learning.

"What's up?" a student asked.

I turned around and saw the face of an errant young man. He too has been away for a while, but he undertook a far different journey. He has just returned from prison after serving a 10-month sentence for a history of assault. I wrote about Kaz last December when I visited him at Connecticut's Manson Correctional Facility and wondered if he would discover redemption or perdition behind prison walls.

"The school seems strange," Kaz said.

"What do you mean by strange?" I asked.

Kaz smiles whenever I ask him to elaborate on a thought or comment. "You know...strange like it's different here."

One of the tender mercies every good teacher learns is how not to play psychotherapist and answer every question with another question. I understood what he meant. Returning to a familiar place after being away for a year makes the scenery appear both old and new.

"How do you feel?" Kaz asked.

How do I feel? Good question. I had spent the past 12 months holding a suitcase and carrying a title that should come with a disclaimer. The National Teacher of the Year is a moniker that cannot belong to any single educator because our nation is filled with so many gifted but unsung teachers. Educators who quickly made me feel like an amateur as I watched them teach. But the title is a treasured key that unlocked doors not opened to most teachers. Doors that led to rooms filled with politicians, bureaucrats, policy makers, union leaders and academics. These are the movers and shakers who direct the course of our education system. I'm not sure if they listened to what I had to say, but I tried my best to be heard.

I looked at Kaz and told him that I feel just fine; it's good to be home.

"What did you learn?" he asked.

Wow. I learned that the Race to the Top will be an arduous task for many states because they entered the race late and way behind the starting line. I learned that our young people should not be judged too harshly because they are trying to build a better future. I learned that pundits and talking heads are too often detached from what is happening inside classrooms. And I learned that politicians need not worry that the American system of public education is falling behind the rest of the world.

It will take months, possibly years, for me to fully digest and appreciate all that I have learned during my travels as National Teacher of the Year. But despite all the differences of opinions and myriad solutions proposed to improve education, I did learn that every parent, teacher, politician, policy maker, academic, and bureaucrat share a common goal to do what is best for our children. And in the end, that is what really matters.

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Fort Benning

Georgia

The playground behind the school is filled with the beautiful noise of children. It's a simple playground covered with swings, slides, and young children chasing each other around a sandbox. They are the sons and daughters of America's soldiers. A car drives by and the children stop playing. They stretch their necks to see if a parent deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan has returned home. The hardest game played at Fort Benning is the waiting game.

I am greeted at the fort's middle school by a group of children who serve as a welcoming committee. One tall boy is eager to show me a colorful blend of pastels hung on the wall. A soldier is hugging a child and the sun is drawn with a large smiley face. "That's my daddy and me," he says proudly. I later learn that the boy's father is in Afghanistan and soon his mother will be deployed to Iraq. He is among the 1.7 million American children who have a parent serving in the military

"Who will watch the boy?" I asked.

A 7th grade teacher who has taught at Fort Benning for over 30 years takes my question in stride. "It's not uncommon that children have both parents deployed; he will be watched by his grandmother."

War is always hardest on children. According to a White House estimate, about 900,000 children have had one or both parents deployed multiple times. Once upon a time a child would slowly raise a solitary hand and waved goodbye to a father sent off to war; today children wave goodbye with both hands.

Fort Benning is a massive military installation and is home to the United States Army Infantry Center and School, a place where young men and women quickly learn that all fighting begins and ends on the ground. General Patton once lived and studied at Fort Benning. Old Blood and Guts must have been a good student because what he learned at Fort Benning would eventually help defeat the Nazis and restore democracy to Western Europe. I drive pass his former house and see a child's bicycle on the front porch. A young officer and his family now occupy the famous general's house and I wonder if his son or daughter was at the school playground.

My tour guide is Dr. Dell McMullen, the Georgia/Alabama district superintendent of DoDEA schools. Dell is intelligent, charming, and living proof that humans do not need to consume potent energy drinks to display vitality and force. I am informed that there are seven schools located at Fort Benning, each belonging to the Department of Defense Education Activity, a rather unique school district that covers the globe and serves the children of military service members and Department of Defense civilian employees. DoDEA and DDESS (Domestic Dependent Elementary and Secondary Schools) operate 191 schools in 14 districts located in 12 foreign countries, seven states, Guam, and Puerto Rico. Over 8,700 educators work very hard to educate and comfort more than 84,000 students struggling to live and learn in a world unique to military families.

I quickly learn that a soldier's child inhabits a place few civilians can fully comprehend because we do not walk in their shoes or mark kitchen calendars with deployment days. My students study global issues, see images of war and natural disasters, listen to the voices of politicians and pundits, and discuss the political and economic machinations that guide the destinies of nations. But we are largely spectators to a dangerous world and do not share the pain felt by the children of the brave men and women who serve our country. The pain of wondering if a car bomb exploding in Iraq will mark the end of a family's nightly ritual of placing X's on the kitchen calendar. Or the agony of wondering if a Taliban sniper has his scope aimed at mom or dad.

Dr. Dell McMullen points to a large tower. "Would you like to jump from that?" she asked.

The 250-foot drop tower is called a "Free Tower" and it is used to train paratroopers assigned to the Airborne School. The tower seems to poke through the alabaster clouds. If Fort Benning is a cathedral to generations of infantry, the tower is its spire.

"No." I answered softly. My thoughts keep returning to the young children at the playground and to their teachers. The DoDEA teachers are truly a special breed of educator who make me proud to be called a teacher.

Life during wartime has traditionally affected the population of an entire nation and its people shared the burdens of pain and loss. We are no longer a people at war as much as we are a nation at war. A minority of brave men and women do the fighting and their children suffer the grief and deprivation of loneliness. It is a heavy burden.

I return to the middle school and once again must pass the playground. The children stop playing and stretch their necks to see who is in my car. I wish I had a parent to bring home.

I wish all our military personnel a safe and healthy Memorial Day. You are in my prayers and your children are in the care of so many wonderful teachers.

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New Jersey Turnpike

Passing the Joyce Kilmer Rest Stop

I am traveling through New Jersey heading home. The turnpike is an easy road to follow because exit signs are clearly marked and I can steer a steady course on the straight road. It's much more difficult to navigate the mind of a politician because roads labeled north and south too often head east and west.

My radio is tuned to a local talk radio station and a bombastic politician is responding to a teacher who asked him a question about possible teacher layoffs in the New York City. The congressman steers away from the question and decides to talk about charter schools.

"Charter schools should be promoted and expanded," he says, "because public schools are not productive, do not reward merit, and do not provide competition."

I was hoping to hear what the lawmaker had to say about layoffs rather than listen to another discussion about charter schools.

"It's time for schools and public school teachers to change because the public is unhappy with the performance of our schools," he concluded before a commercial break.

The fact that the congressman's state is on the fringe of complete dysfunction due to political corruption and ineptitude is never mentioned. But the art of using hyperbolic rhetoric to obfuscate personal incompetence has been the aegis of politicians throughout the ages. Better to focus on schools and teachers than matters lethal to the body politic.

But it's all a ruse. Charter schools are essentially no better or worse than local public schools. A few charter schools do better than the local competition and that's probably a good thing for the fortunate student attending such a school. Other charter schools fail due to the same dynamics that cause all schools to fail: poor leadership, insufficient funding, apathetic students and parents, and a lack of quality teachers. The literature about charter schools is voluminous and predictable: Studies funded by charter school proponents favor charter schools and studies funded by opponents of charter schools do not favor charter schools. A more objective meta-analysis of charter schools has been undertaken by the National Assessment of Educational Progress in 2003, 2005, 2007, and 2009. NAEP is considered the gold standard of educational testing and the results of their testing demonstrate that charter schools, on average, do not outperform regular public schools.

The politician returns to the airwaves and doesn't skip a beat. "People are unhappy with schools and demand change."

I can't argue that some people are not happy with our nation's public school system but the vast majority of Americans respond that they are pleased with their local public schools and can fondly recall a teacher who made a positive impact in their life. Can the same be said of Congress or a politician?

I continue to steer a steady course on the turnpike. I tried to navigate the mind of the politician on the radio, but the path of his words is littered with detours and dead ends. Roads labeled north and south did head east and west. Is it any wonder that we are all lost and confused?

Posted by Anthony Mullen at 10:19 AM | Permalink | Leave a comment | Recommend

Long Island National Cemetery

Pine Lawn, New York

My mother died and then she disappeared. The last time I saw her was when she was lying on the kitchen floor. I thought she fainted because the oven door was open and the room was very hot. I did not realize at the time that a cerebral aneurism had burst and had taken her life. I was a nine-year-old boy and not expected to understand the role serendipity played in death or allowed to attend her wake. My mother's funeral mass was crowded with friends and family and my hurriedly purchased suit did not fit well. I remember staring at her casket and wondering if she was wearing her favorite blue dress. I wanted to open the casket and place a photograph of my brother and me in her hands but was afraid to look at a dead person. I watched the hearse take my mother away to a place called Long Island and was then taken to a neighbor's house. I always regretted not leaving the pew and placing the photograph in my mother's hands.

The Irish are strange mourners. Some treat the dead as though they have never left and others pretend the dead never lived. I grew up never seeing a photograph of my mother or hearing about her life. She died and then disappeared. But the small grave stone in front of me is proof that she once lived and had two small boys who called her Mom.

It's Mother's Day and it is cold and raining in New York. The cemetery is usually crowded on special holidays but today I see only a few people standing solemnly under umbrellas. It is a perfect day to speak to my mother.

A lot happened last year. I was invited to the White House and met the president this year; he was friendly and joked with your youngest grandson. I spent a year traveling throughout the country and visiting some foreign countries. I tried my best to remind people how special teachers are and what they mean to children. What? Yes-I really did meet the President of the United States. But you know that; don't you? I turned fifty this year. Can you believe your youngest son is fifty? I'm sorry you only lived to be thirty-eight. What should I say to all the teachers who are mothers? Yes, I do hear what you are saying but the rain is making me wet. You were once a teacher? I did not know that. Oh...yes, every mother is a child's first teacher. I must leave now but will be back next Mother's day.

I leave the grave site and head toward my car. My mother was right. She never taught in a classroom but was my first teacher. Every mother is a child's first teacher and every classroom teacher is a surrogate mother to all children. Is it any wonder why a teacher is so special in the hearts of children?

A belated happy Mother's Day to America's teachers.

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Jackson

Mississippi

There is a man in Jackson who fixes broken watches. Time may heal all wounds but it takes a special man to heal time.

My Timex did not cost much and the repair bill will probably cost more than the price of a new watch, but a time piece that has served me faithfully over so many years deserves a better end than the bottom of a trashcan.

The thin man selects a small minute wheel from a box filled with tiny parts and places it next to a larger hour wheel. The teeth of both wheels align perfectly. The craftsman connects the two wheels by inserting a pin through a small opening. He snaps a waterproof lens over the dial. "All finished," he said.

I watch the second hand come alive and sweep across the round face of my analogue watch. The repairman gently places a worn jeweler's loupe on the counter and holds the watch next to his right ear. "Sixty beats per minute, "he said softly, "the same as a healthy heart."

"I didn't think the watch would ever work again," I said.

The son of an itinerant watchmaker walks toward the cash register. "Most things can be fixed if people weren't so quick to throw them away."

I will miss my visits to the South. It is a beautiful and timeless place. The land is still home to long lines of freight cars, front porches with swings, soft warm winds, and people who enjoy drinking sweet tea. And Southern folk are a generous and resilient people who see value in broken things.

I have traveled to the heart of the South to find out if a broken school system can be fixed. The state that takes its name from a mighty river has a long history of poor people and poorer schools. In 2007, Mississippi students scored the lowest of any state on the National Assessments of Educational Progress (NAEP) in both math and science. In 2008, Mississippi was ranked last among fifty states in academic achievement by the American Legislative Exchange Council's Report Card on Education, with the lowest average ACT scores. However, 92% of Mississippi high school graduates took the ACT and 3% took the SAT, in comparison to the national averages of 43% and 45%, respectively.

What's happening in the Magnolia State? A future filled with the hope of a college education seems to be on the mind of many high school students living in a state with the sixth lowest spending per pupil in the nation and little support from the federal government. A federal government that once took pride in desegregating schools in Mississippi has now abandoned its students and schools. Now that white and black children are drinking from the same water fountain, the federal government and Hollywood movie producers have headed home.

But Mississippians are not ready to throw away their schools or children. They want to do what Southerners do best-fix things right.

I am attending the Mississippi Teacher of the Year Symposium at the Jackson Hilton. The event is organized by the Mississippi Teacher Center and its director, Cecily McNair, is planning a rather unique meeting of educators. The audience will include distinguished classroom teachers, administrators, policy makers, academics, and state education officials working together to improve teacher quality and student learning. What a unique idea: A gathering of educators from diverse areas of expertise spending time listening and learning from each other. I feel a bit uneasy as I watch the assemblage of educators gather near a breakfast buffet.

I mention to Cecily that I have never attended a symposium that allows teachers to be part of the process to help design programs and policies to improve education on a state or national level. I commend her initiative to bring together so many professional educators committed to helping children with no strings attached.

"Thanks-we always ask teachers to be part of initiatives that impact teaching and learning, "she said. "To do otherwise is like asking an architect to draw plans for a new school without consulting teachers first-probably not a design "best practice."

Indeed. I complain to her that few states welcome the opinions of classroom teachers and it's a rare sighting to see so many different education professionals nourishing each other at the same breakfast table.

"We believe it's much better to "measure twice and cut once" than it is to "build it now and fix it later," she replied.

Cecily speaks of architects, measuring, and building. She is a daughter of the South and knows how to fix things.

"What's one of the projects you will be working on today?" I asked.

Cecily's eyes ignite with the radiance of enthusiasm. "We are working on developing a statewide teacher evaluation system and are so glad to have the opportunity at our Teacher of the Year Symposium to 'hear the voices' of our exemplary teachers. After all, they know exactly what "effective teaching" is -they're doing it everyday!"

Something very special is happening in the state of Mississippi and federal education officials should take notice. Educators from diverse professional backgrounds are coming together to fix a school system broken by a legacy of destructive state and federal policies. The poor and the wounded are gathered to repair broken schools, mend the lives children, and heal ailing teachers. And these hard-working educators need the financial support of the federal government. We should not ask the state of Mississippi to enter a "race to the top" when the federal government has placed it in last place.

There is a man in Jackson who fixes broken watches. He grew up poor and never had the luxury to throw away something that could still be fixed. And that is story of Mississippi.

Posted by Anthony Mullen at 10:58 AM | Permalink | Leave a comment | Recommend

Virginia

Monticello Grounds

Hamlet teaches much. The play taught me that the dead depend upon the living to tell their story. The dead, after all, first linger in our thoughts and prayers and then disappear inside old photograph albums. A few notable dead have monuments built to remind people that they once lived and loved and laughed. Some inscribe an epitaph on their tombstone, usually a brief piece of prose commemorating a significant legacy or achievement. Thomas Jefferson desired that his grave be marked by an obelisk inscribed with the three accomplishments for which he wished to be remembered, "...and not a word more."

That's it. The third president of the United States wished to be remembered for his intellect, belief in freedom of religion, and the founding of a great university. No mention of his vice presidency or presidency. The man did not want to be remembered as a politician. No wonder scholars are still probing his great mind.

I walked away from the Jefferson family cemetery wondering if a teacher will ever get the chance to have the following words inscribed on his or her grave:

Such a simple yet profound epitaph would be the envy of all teachers, a monument as profound and beautiful as Jefferson's granite obelisk. But such an inscription is highly improbable and, if written, would likely be vandalized by politicians or education bureaucrats who have left teachers out of designing a national curriculum.

Academic standards are a critical component of quality teaching and student learning, and the adoption of a uniform set of national standards could transform American education. No wonder this important issue is a popular topic of conversation whenever I speak at schools of education. Pre-service teachers often ask me if I have been involved in the drafting of academic standards on a national or state level. No and no. However, I do tell our nation's future teachers that some day they may be part of the process of developing a common core of national standards, and that is why their generation of teachers must keep knocking on the doors of politicians, policy makers, and education "think tanks" and remind these influential people that a teacher's voice is the only voice heard in a classroom.

And I tell our future teachers that whatever uniform set of academic standards eventually makes its way to their classroom door, the following core knowledge must be included:

Mission Statement

What I teach is not as important as whom I teach.

Math Standards

a2 + b2 = c2 is a useful math concept, but understanding that the sum of all a child's yesterdays does not equal the value of just one tomorrow is critical core knowledge.

Geography Standards

The origin of the Nile River is a piece of practical information, but understanding that a child's origin is not their destiny is critical core knowledge.

Reading Standards

Students should read sonnets, a beautiful form of poetry that derives its name from the Italian word sonetto, meaning "little song." But the ability to read a child' story and know that each and every student arrives at your classroom door with a unique and intriguing and incomplete story is critical core knowledge.

Writing Standards

A sentence must include a subject and a predicate, but knowing how to script confidence on the blank pages of a child's story, how to edit the mistakes, and how to help write a happy ending is critical core knowledge.

Science Standards

What goes up must come down is a useful concept, but the ability to catch a falling student is critical core knowledge.

ART

How artists work and what tools do they use to create is concrete and useful information, but understanding that the hands of every artist were once held and guided by a teacher is critical core knowledge.

Civics

Knowing the three branches of government is useful knowledge, but understanding that the greatest institution for social change is a school and the greatest instrument of change is a teacher is critical core knowledge.

I hope one day my children or grandchildren will visit a monument to a teacher. A national historic landmark that reminds visitors that here lay the remains of a very important teacher who helped draft an essential and enduring common core of national standards.

And not a word more.

Posted by Anthony Mullen at 1:18 PM | Permalink | Leave a comment | Recommend