The quiet drop outs

It’s not shocking that the December 30th deadline for confirming my National Board Certification candidacy has forced me to ask the right questions. If I’m co-teaching two sections of Honors English 12 and teaching solo two others, which class would be best to film for Component 3? Or should I use my 7th period ELD Seminar class that has only 10 students? Should I certify in English Language Arts (the subject I’m actually teaching) or English as a New Language (my career specialty)?

It turns out that I have to scrap the videos I’ve recorded, delete the written commentary, and wait until next semester when my new schedule includes 51% English Learners in a sheltered Honors English 12 class. Teachers have to pivot all the time. Good thing I checked before spending the rest of the school year completing unscorable components. One thing, however, has come out of this frustrating process that I cannot dismiss.

The data I’ve collected on my students may not be valid for National Board Certification, but it deserves some written commentary. So here it is.

Out of the 106 students in my four classes, 30 have missed 20 or more days of instruction or they have stopped coming to school altogether. Some have withdrawn from school officially, some have switched to “credit recovery” classes online, and one had a baby. Many English Learners are working full time and miss class because they’re exhausted. But where are the other students? Why aren’t they coming to school?

Over and over again, I try to contact the students on my roster. I call home, I send an email to the counselors, administrators follow up, kids get referred to the Wellness Center, I involve the Parent Community Coordinator or the Bilingual Counselor. Some will show up once a week or two. My school and school district have wonderful resources, fully employed. But why aren’t these students coming to class?

Teachers and school staff understand why. These students are suffering from enormous mental health challenges as a result of the pandemic. It’s not just a disengagement. This year’s seniors spent the spring semester of their freshman year and 90% of their 10th grade year online. These are crucial formative years, where adolescents naturally break away from their families and seek peer friendships as they develop independent identities.

Schools have made incredible adjustments to accommodate student needs. But we must keep asking the right questions. How can we better address the experiences of high school students whose natural growth process was stunted? What new programs or new staffing can we put in place to support the whole child? School is not just for academics. We’ve known that for a long time. Why has it taken a public health crisis to begin to address this?

During the pandemic, articles about the “great resignation” began to appear. Workers seeking better jobs jumped at new employment opportunities. Now we hear about “quiet quitting,” where workers are opting out of any extra tasks outside their primary job duties (in the teachers’ union, we call this Work to Rule). High school students are paralleling what companies and employers are seeing in the workforce.

Seniors are doing the absolute bare minimum to meet graduation requirements. It’s a huge problem in the classroom when 30% of the students missed the intro lesson and we can not make progress. I have to completely re-think discussion groups or project-based assignments that require peer collaboration. What social-emotional skills are they also missing?

It’s a quiet drop out crisis. The soft skills that today’s teens will need to be successful members of society are not developing normally. We can help them if every school, every district, and every state begins to ask the right questions, gather data, and reflect on possible solutions. It would help to have a deadline.

The To-Do List

It’s that season when the newness of the school year has worn off and the workload has become almost unbearable. Possibly because, as usual, I’ve committed to absolutely everything. On top of teaching full time, I’ve joined the districtwide Labor Management Collaboration Committee and, after our October meeting, I volunteered to organize a happy hour for 300+ English Language teachers. This is on top of my monthly Building Rep duties as a member of the teachers’ union. 

This is an election year, teachers are working without a contract, and we’ve filed an Unfair Labor Practice against the school district for refusing to come to the bargaining table. The union needs to share our proposals before the Board of Education votes on next year’s budget. My role is to communicate to the teachers at my school what is happening with issues that directly impact them, and to rally their support when needed. Like wearing Red for Ed(ucation), marching to the Board offices, and handing out Apple Ballots at the Early Voting Centers. 🍎

That’s the easy part. I’m a natural activist.

I’ve co-authored a section of a White Paper for the Community WELL group, and now need to review the document before they send it to the Maryland State Board of Education. What if I’m wrong about EOY? What if that factoid that the ACLU guy popped out comes back to haunt me? Can I own it? Speaking up for students has already earned me a reprimand from my supervisor this month. Part of me thinks what have I got to lose? I’m close to retirement and part of me dreads signing my name to such a high-stakes document.

Teachers are often so afraid to speak up that I feel compelled to do it for them. 

Call me crazy, but I’ve signed up for National Board Certification – all four components in one year! People have told me it’s like being in grad school. I’m taking a support class for Component Three, “Teaching Practice and Learning Environment.” I have to videotape different lessons and write a four-page paper reflecting my knowledge of students, my knowledge of English Language Acquisition, and Instructional Practice. I’m the oldest teacher in the room. I’d love to say I’m putting myself through this torture to become a better practitioner. Honestly, I’m doing it for the money. I get a significant salary boost that figures into my retirement income. 

I’d be a fool to walk away from this opportunity. 

Because I am a teacher of English Language Learners, I’ve got to complete the mandated paperwork: Photocopy Parent Notification Letters and English Learner Accommodations forms – pink ones for the students to keep in their binders so that they can advocate for themselves in their content classes – and white ones to send home. Go over the signature lines with a highlighter and staple the two docs together so that students won’t forget one at home.  I might as well send home the video release forms for National Boards at the same time. I’ve got to monitor who’s returned the forms and motivate them to get them in ASAP. Then I have to file them in a manila folder in the office filling cabinet.

Teachers of English Learners have extra outdated, onerous duties that other teachers do not have to worry about.

The last weekend of October is a No Homework weekend so that seniors can work on their college applications – the ones that are due November 1st. The University of Maryland admits 94% of its freshman class from those early applications so it’s crunch time. My immigrant students didn’t get the message that counselors need a month’s notice to write a recommendation and send out transcripts. I’m encouraging them to send the application in anyway. And to pick a few other schools, including Montgomery College, an excellent community college, as a safety school.

Helping newcomer English Learners with college applications is intrinsically rewarding. 

Melani asked me on Friday after the bell rang if I could write her a recommendation – due  Monday. Of course! I said. She was briefly in my class in 9th grade, again in 10th grade, and now she’s in my co-taught Honors English 12 class. I love that girl! In spite of family problems, she comes to school ready to learn, she works hard, and she is the most positive and optimistic student I know. Last year – the only year she was not my student, she used to stop by and greet me with a twinkle in her eye (we were masked all year) and ask how my day was going. She seemed genuinely concerned about my response. Melani would make a great nurse or social worker. She’s that kind of caring. She probably already has a million certificates, but I think I’ll nominate her for Student of the Month again. 

Students like Melani deserve every bit of after-school support that I can spare. 

Stacks of ungraded Triple Entry Logs sit on the dining room table. I have to check the reading notes and compare what they wrote to my clipboard checks indicating what they said before entering their grades for the Literature Circle discussion. Then I have to post next week’s assignment online because I’ll be out all day Tuesday for Professional Development. I can’t forget to enter their Common Writing Task scores into the Performance Matters system so that district bureaucrats can track our Evidence of Learning, which is a state measure for student success. I can’t remember when the deadline is.

I knew this would happen. 

My to-do list has gotten impossibly long. How will I ever find enough time to complete all the work?! I keep reminding myself: This is the career I chose. These are tasks that I love. I’ve gotten exactly the courses that I requested. I love my school. But it is already overwhelming. And it’s not even the end of Marking Period 1 yet.

There’s never so much to do that I can’t write my way out of doing it. 😁

Back to normal?

For the first time in seven years, I’ve got my own classroom. I’m teaching all the classes I requested. I don’t have a homeroom. Like a miracle, I have both my planning periods in my own classroom! When my crazy colleague starts the unhinged fuming, I don’t have to sit in the cramped department office and listen – I can just walk away and close my door! This must be how it feels to win the lottery!

My students seem engaged and polite. The new cell phone policy (no cell phones out during class) shows that administrators listened to teachers and support us. During the union-negotiated early-release day, our leadership team hosted a staff barbecue out by the football stadium — while other schools forced teachers to sit through three tedious hours of professional development. A focus on mental health seems to be more than a box to check.

We opened a brand-new Wellness Room next to the counseling office, staffed by a full-time social worker. The district hired two therapists to meet with students during the school day. My school is focusing on trauma-informed practices and approaches to teaching holistically. Laughter fills the halls, kids are pumped for the Friday night football games, and student clubs are thriving. I want so desperately to say that we’re back to normal, but the new normal is not as rosy as some would like to believe.

Last week I received the worst possible news that a teacher could receive. One of my students died. I don’t have any details about their death, but my gut tells me it was a direct result of the isolation and angst caused by two years of pandemic. Even though I only knew this child for four weeks, I’d already claimed them as my own. This death affected me profoundly. I had to deliver the news to my second period Honors English 12 and then go on with the lesson. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my teaching career.

Finding our rhythm again

There’s a rhythm to rowing. It takes months, years, even decades to develop. Rowers strive for a consistent beat, whether they measure 28 strokes per minute, or if the coxswain is yelling for another Power 10 at full pressure. Finding a rhythm requires focus, practice, and experience.

Just like teaching. 

Unlike kayaking or paddleboarding, a complete amateur cannot jump into a narrow rowing shell with any hope of remaining upright. Despite popular opinion, not everyone can walk into a classroom and teach. Both rowing and teaching are open to almost anyone at almost any age. Both activities look easy from a distance. But in order to be successful, you need a few basics.

RowingWhat you need for successTeaching
 Access to a boat, a waterway, and oars, slingsThe right equipmentDesks, a classroom, computers, online resources, books, pencils, paper, a board or screen to project lessons
To keep from flipping into the water, a rower needs good balanceGood balanceTeachers need a healthy work-life balance; work cannot dominate every waking hour, especially after two years of the pandemic
Rowing is a highly technical sport; someone has to teach you how to row; a good team  with a good coach can motivate you to wake up at 5:00 amA good coach, a team, a group First year teachers need a mentor; experienced teachers need colleagues to share ideas, cover class while you run to the bathroom, or gripe about the latest district busywork requirement
Port, starboard, gunwale, feather, coxswain, rigger, catch, slideTechnical vocabularyTeachers need to know the latest jargon: SEL, ELs, CCSS, objectives vs. outcomes 
Row upstream on the starboard side, use the second arch heading downstream, help novices on the dock; don’t help experienced rowers unless they askKnowledge of the rulesArrive at school well before the duty-day starts; don’t complain except to fellow teachers; deal with parents in a timely manner; don’t post photos of your students on social media; don’t ask questions in an all-staff meeting
Row every morning, or every evening; row when it’s 90 degrees outside; row on your rowing machine all winter; subscribe to rowing websitesPractice, practice, practiceThe first year sucks, but it gets better; the rewards come much later, when your students come back to see you or you learn that you were their favorite teacher
It’s almost counterintuitive, but once you find your rhythm, you can completely relax; it takes intense concentration to row,  Find your rhythmEstablish routines during the first weeks of school – this will save your sanity by November; we all need to set a new rhythm this year

Rowing has taught me discipline. Rowing has helped me get through the most difficult year of my entire life. Rowing is my lifelong passion – partly because I can find a rhythm outdoors, open to the healing powers of nature. 

As we head back into the classroom after two years of pandemic teaching, it is more important than ever before to find our rhythm. 

Pomp and Circumstance

Pomp and Circumstance brings my allergies out. Every year when they play that graduation song, my eyes water. Sniffles take over my nose. In 2021 when the commencement ceremony moved from an indoor arena to our football stadium as a covid precaution, pre-recorded music filled the air and very few students walked across the stage in person. In 2022, moving outdoors seems to be a wonderful new tradition of finishing high school on the home turf. This year I’m just happy it’s over.

In spite of the bittersweet farewells in front of the school banner, the most prevalent feeling among my teacher colleagues is exhaustion. Unlike last year’s unprecedented pandemic anxiety, where everyone acknowledged the severity of the crisis, this year we all moved back into our classrooms and pretended it was a normal school year. 

I wore a fake smile under my mask from September to June. High school seniors went through the motions of reading and writing. We faked the status quo as fights broke out in the hallways, as Omicron spread through the community, then state-mandated testing took over. We stumbled through a workload crisis as teachers dropped like flies and no substitutes showed up. We finished the school year mourning the 19 students and 2 teachers murdered in their Texas classroom on a day that should have been the best end-of-year celebration. 

We. Are. Tired.

Despite moments of true pride and joy, every teacher I know has said that this school year has been the single most difficult of their careers. Far more than 2020 or 2021. The disconnect between our deeply-held values and the toxic testing culture that education bureaucrats force on us creates a kind of cognitive dissonance. Yet we wear a happy face. We try to protect our students from the worst policies and expectations. 

The inspiration for the song title Pomp and Circumstance comes from Shakespeare’s Othello, which we teach in Honors English 12. In the play, Othello’s identity as a soldier gives him self-confidence and social standing. When he marries Desdemona, his military role diminishes. He is lost without the ability to prove himself in war and becomes isolated and unhinged – enough to kill his wife in a fit of unfounded jealousy.

As I struggle to make sense of the world, Othello’s loss of identity brings to mind the young man who bought guns on a whim then shot up Uvalde children. Like my students, most mass shooters are recent high school graduates. Suddenly and terrifyingly, they are without the safety and routine of high school. They have no way to prove their manhood; their isolation makes them fall prey to their own obsessions. Just like Othello. We have to suffer the consequences over and over again because our leaders won’t pass common-sense gun laws. Teachers now have to plan for these once unimaginable circumstances. 

Composer Sir Edward Elgar chose the title Pomp and Circumstance in 1901 to illustrate the disconnect between military pageantry and the terror of war. After two years of pandemic disruption, we need that pageantry. It feels like we have lived through a war. 

The effects of 18 months in isolation played out in our school hallways, bathrooms, and classrooms. In the wake of the BLM movement, police officers were removed from schools. Security was understaffed. Record levels of violence marked the first semester. Drug abuse became so prevalent that administrators had to close off certain bathrooms. And I work in a “good school.”

How many times did an ambulance show up quietly to rush a child to the emergency room because of an overdose? Mental health meltdowns caused some students to become loud and defiant; some refused to work. Others simply disappeared. Phone calls to different homes would reveal that student after student was “dealing with some mental health issues.” Yet mandatory testing continued and Central Office pretended that everything was okay.

So when seniors promenaded into the stadium this year, I stood and clapped while Board of Education officials, the guest speaker, the Superintendent of Schools, and the principal led the procession wearing robes with colorful hoods and arm stripes indicating academic achievement. I snapped pictures of students wearing tassels, cords, and stoles signifying affiliations and accomplishments: National Honor Society, the Maryland Seal of Biliteracy, Eagle Scout, 240+ hours of volunteer community service. My smile was real.

Then I saw M, whose entire apartment building flooded in September and who became homeless. This student endured a 25-mile bus journey to get to school every day – and had to work every afternoon. When I saw M. in a cap and gown, my allergies really started acting up.  

The orchestra played ceremonial fanfare as graduates tossed their hats in the air and hugged each other. I grinned at the happy normalcy of it all. 

We honor our graduates with Pomp and Circumstance to acknowledge the end of their K-12 journey. This year, we are honoring so much more. We are all survivors. 

When it was over, I went home and curled into a ball.

Measuring the “good” schools

It’s like we never had a pandemic. U.S. News & World Report came out with its rankings of “best” high schools in the U.S. and media outlets jumped at the “news.” In Montgomery County, Maryland – surprise – the wealthiest schools are considered the “best.” Walt Whitman has a 2% poverty rate (the lowest in the district), Wootton has a 7% poverty rate, and Poolesville has an 8% poverty rate (it’s also the smallest high school in the district, all-magnet). Why are we still pretending that high test scores equal “good” teaching and learning?

We should be talking about teachers like my colleague Claudia who teaches math to immigrant teens with interrupted formal education. They arrive at our school reading at a kindergarten level, barely able to add and subtract whole numbers. She gets them ready for Algebra I in a year. Why aren’t we measuring that success? Like most teachers of Multilingual students, she advocates fiercely for them, going well above and beyond the job description. I’ve learned so much from her.

If Claudia notices newcomer English learners sitting in Resource class because there’s no room in ESOL 1, she writes to our supervisors. If a student is capable, she insists that they change the placement to a higher-level class, no matter what the transcript or placement test says. I always thought it was just a scheduling problem. She showed me that it is inequity. Can you imagine if that happened to wealthy white newcomer American students?

People misjudge Claudia. At first, I did too. She’s from South America and learned English in school, just like many of our students. She’s outspoken and self-deprecating. If you didn’t know her, you might take her complaints seriously. The students flock to her. They tell her things. She stands up for them, even when it earns her a reprimand. When I stand up for students, I do not get called into the principal’s office. Claudia made me acknowledge my own white privilege.

Now more than ever, schools need to pay attention to the soft skills that teachers bring to a classroom — not test data with a predictable outcome or how many are enrolled in AP classes. Even though the execution was problematic, Josh Starr (our previous superintendent) had the right idea when he awarded “the most hopeful” teacher and school. We should measure emotional intelligence and connectedness. After two years of pandemic learning, we should focus on building relationships and reward schools for student and staff engagement.

As a side note, I used to work for U.S.News & World Report, and we used to call it Snooze, a play on words. When I hear once again that Thomas Jefferson High School for Science and Technology in Alexandria, VA has won “best school” in America, I hit the snooze button. I’d like to invite those editors to watch my colleague Claudia at work for a day. I think they might learn something.

Hamlet and the Class of 2022

Appearance vs. Reality. Anxiety. Mistrust.

The themes of Hamlet could be taken from today’s headlines. Or maybe from our students’ social media posts. When we asked Honors English 12 classes to find elements of the play that are valuable and relevant for today’s young people, many chose to make a personal connection to Hamlet’s disturbed state of mind. Who can blame them? The mental health crisis among teens today is well documented and serious.

Like Hamlet, this year’s seniors have experienced plenty of disruptions in their lives: school shootings, toxic political discourse, the #MeToo movement, Black Lives Matter, and two years of pandemic schooling. Hamlet spends half of the play depressed and brooding. Then in a moment of rage he lashes out at the man behind the curtain, killing Polonius instead of his evil uncle, the king.

Fortunately, student fights in the hallways don’t usually end in murder. Most school districts saw a huge uptick in violence as students returned to school buildings in the fall of 2021. School police officers had been removed in response to the BLM movement and administrative teams were overwhelmed. Something was definitely rotten in the state (of Denmark), and our leaders were very slow to recognize it.

In the classroom, however, we see almost the opposite effect: lethargy. Here we are, two months from graduation, and it’s almost like the entire class of 2022 presents with Ophelia syndrome: they’re going through the motions of writing an essay, but waiting for authority figures to tell them what to think. I don’t truly believe that, but wonder how much their social-emotional development was stunted by 18 months spent going to school from a corner in their bedrooms? Is that why they identify so much with Hamlet?

Teachers continually try to find ways of connecting Hamlet to the real world. Here and here are some of the best ways that is being done this year.

Polonius counsels his son Laertes before he heads back to university. “To thine own self be true,” he tells him.  What does that even mean for the Class of 2022?

The weight is over

The weight of the past two years begins to lift. The Maryland State Board of Education has pulled the mask mandate for public schools. WiDA Access testing is almost over. The green shoots of crocuses poke up from the cold ground. And spring rowing is about to begin. 

Like the naked trees outside my window, my emotions have been stripped to nothing. In the fall, I shed every pretense of being in control of my life. I endured the freezing rains of winter, sobbing alone in my room while imagining friends and colleagues nestled with loved ones in their own cozy retreats.

I spent my childhood outdoors and have always had a visceral connection to the changing seasons. After a dormant period, I feel a glimmer of hope as the sun grows stronger and buds play peek-a-boo. We feel these changes in a school as well.

Teachers waited for the vaccine, we waited for covid testing kits, we postponed weddings and family reunions, we waited to travel, we waited for omicron to pass. Now we’re waiting for our local Board of Education to decide what the Montgomery County Public Schools district masking policy will be.

The weight is almost gone.

Come with me into the woods where spring is 
advancing, as it does, no matter what, 
not being singular or particular, but one 
of the forever gifts, and certainly visible.

~ Mary Oliver

Finding Fellowship in Times of Trouble

I went to church on Sunday, something that used to be so ordinary. I hadn’t been to Saint Camillus in two years. The parking lot was nearly empty. Every other pew was roped off to keep us safely six feet apart. A video camera in the back live-streamed the mass on Facebook. A small choir began a once-familiar song. I made the sign of the cross as the priest began, searching for something that felt like community.

When my parents moved us from Louisiana to upstate New York, and then to West Virginia, the pang of leaving home behind burned into my heart each time we had to say goodbye. “You have to make your own family,” Mom said as we started over in a new place. She said I was the resilient one, the sibling who adapted most quickly to their new environment. This trait has served me well, but two years of pandemic anxiety, isolation, and uncertainty might finally have depleted my reserves.

January started with a snow storm that closed schools for two days. That was a huge relief, since omicron was infecting everyone. The week before Winter Break, none of my classes had more than 50% attendance. We couldn’t get rapid tests, PCR testing wasn’t widely available yet, and results took too long. Commercial airlines were cancelling flights all over the country because flight attendants, pilots, and crews were in quarantine.

When the two-hour snow delay was announced for January 5th, MCPS leadership was not prepared. More than 90 bus routes had no drivers. Thousands of students were waiting outside in the freezing cold for buses that never showed up. Building service teams were short-staffed and struggled to clear the parking lots and get the buildings cleaned. So many teachers were out sick that there were not enough substitutes. Only 25% of 1,500 jobs were filled. Many students who did show up for school had to sit in an auditorium where social distancing was nearly impossible.

Teachers covered for absent colleagues, giving up precious planning periods over and over and over again. With no free time during the school day to prepare lessons, teachers went home every evening exhausted, with work yet to do. The superintendent held a public meeting that was so boilerplate and tone deaf that it infuriated the entire community: parents, educators, elected officials, and students. Both the principals’ union and the teachers’ union passed a No Confidence Resolution. Parent groups blew up social media. Students staged walkouts at all the high schools.

The mandated subject-matter testing continued as if there were no pandemic. Algebra, Government, Science, English Language Arts, a four-domain WiDA test for multilingual learners, and a two-day Progress Check that did not affect student grades or fulfill any graduation requirement. If administrators are so concerned about “learning loss,” why are they okay when kids miss so much class instruction to take meaningless tests?

In all of this (madness), I’ve tried to find some fellowship. My District 5 Councilmember Tom Hucker held a virtual Town Hall to listen to members of the community. More than 5,000 people showed up. Most expressed frustration and anger at the Board of Education and MCPS leadership. The teachers’ union has held many meetings and pushed out direct communication that addresses our immediate needs. I’ve gotten more involved in the union. Maybe this is my community.

It felt restorative to step into a real church on Sunday. The piano player improvised a few songs beautifully, and a middle-aged African American woman kept the beat using a complete drum kit. I clapped my hands and swayed — not a behavior typically associated with the Catholic Church — while tears streamed down my face. It almost felt like coming home. My mother would have been proud.

Repetitive Movement

John is in the woods near my house chopping fallen trees. His forceful grunts echo up the ravine as he slams down on logs over and over and over again. 

My nephew paces the floor when he visits, around and around and around. 

My son plays video games from the moment he wakes up, clicking, tapping, and exclaiming. 

Repetitive physical movements have a calming effect that can reduce our fear and anxiety over things we can’t control. Like the uncertainty and chaos of the entire past 20 months. 

Writer Annie Dillard observed that “how we spend our days is how we spend our lives.”

If that’s the case, I need to examine how I spend my days.

During quarantine, I walked outside twice a day and wrote short stories, poetry, and personal essays. After Zoom classes, I played my recorder behind closed doors. In warm weather, I rowed on the Anacostia and Potomac rivers. I built a fire in the fire pit and sat outside with friends and neighbors. 

These routines got me through the worst of the pandemic.

I’m holding on to them like a prayer to get me into next year, because who knows what 2022 will bring?