I'm Feeling Lucky

If you Google "Google's offices," you get all sorts of images that will more than likely make you sigh about your own workspace.  You see Legos, ping pong tables, comfy chairs, scooters, bright colors, video games, and lots and lots of food -- the antithesis of the life-sapping fluorescent sterility you find in so many environments.  On Friday I got to see Google's New York City headquarters in person, and my expectations were actually surpassed.  The building itself is breathtakingly expansive, and the space inside is invigorating.  The people, not surprisingly, are in good spirits, and with the levity that pervades, you might forget for a moment what seriously powerful work is taking place.  For the few hours I was there, I very deliberately soaked in the energy, took note of the details, and couldn't help but wonder, "How might these elements apply to other places of learning?"

My time to explore was relatively brief, but a few key themes emerged as potential ingredients for a place of inspiration, challenge, and love of one's work.

Play matters

Google's office embodies the mantra of MIT's Media Lab: "Lifelong Kindergarten."  Around every corner there are places to play, tinker, design, build, and experiment.  There are bins of Legos, expansive table tops, boxes of Mr. Potato Head, chess boards, a ball pit, pool tables, slides, and a multi-user gaming system complete with a big screen TV.  And when walking is too pedestrian or inefficient, one can grab a scooter to move from room to room.  A skeptic might wonder how in such an environment any work gets done.  However, research shows us how important play is beyond mere "fun." Play is practical, essential to problem solving, and an application of curiosity and imagination.  And in addition to many other benefits, it fuels a healthy morale.  What leader of learners wouldn't want more of this for his or her community?   Unfortunately, as students advance grade levels, play often seems to disappear.  The rigor of more advanced curricula becomes synonymous with stress, and the value placed on play disintegrates as the prospect of college looms.   What if we could take a lesson from Google and science and find ways to help our young adults play more as they learn?

Reflection breeds creation

Lining Google's hallways are computers of the past: an original Macintosh, an Apple II, even an old Atari complete with joystick.  Passing them you literally witness an evolution in thinking, design, and performance and you're at once awed, entertained, and inspired by how far technology has come.  This display then leads into collaborative spaces where Googlers are challenged to create their next best thing. The spectrum from reflection to creation is seamless, and employees gain perspective on how they stand poised to make their contribution to this great timeline.  How valuable it would be if our students could experience something similar.  How meaningful it is when they can envision and reflect on what came before them and then harness the motivation and tools to create and share what their intellect and interactions compel them to.

Comfort counts

Core to Google's success is its steadfast focus on the user experience.  An unusable interface, an unsightly design, or an ineffective tool will quickly be abandoned, perhaps even resented.  Google's office designers seem to grasp this truth on many levels.  To do good work that meets people's needs requires people whose own needs are met.  A space suited to herd cattle into restrictive spaces that tax the body and mind is poised to result in sub-optimal work and team members eager to jump ship.  On the contrary, spaces that comfort and support, with parts that can move and adapt, and make inhabitants feel welcome, valued, and wanted may just produce wonders.  You see these latter elements everywhere you look at Google.  I imagine that those who dwell in that space cannot help but feel valued and are therefore inclined to pass that experience on through their work.  I have to wonder, how comfortable are our learners?  How valued does their learning space (and the people in them) make them feel?  How many learners may feel eager to jump ship, and what can we do about that?

Google's offices are exceptional, and large revenue streams play a big part in that.  But I believe that the vision and values of Google's spaces are ones from which every school can learn.

a Google employee's tweet

I left the New York headquarters feeling lucky to have been there, and I hope I can do my part so that students leave school with the very same feeling.

"Hope is a good thing"

CC image on Flickr by Gilderic

In the last 90 days, I have been fortunate enough to step out of my own learning environment and participate in two exceptional events focused on education and innovation.  At the Hathaway Brown Education Innovation Summit in Cleveland, OH and Educon 2.3 in Philadelphia, PA, I was able to connect with passionate, dedicated, and wise educators who at once feel restless and hopeful about today's schools and learners.  The conversations at both conferences were diverse and compelling, addressing topics ranging from project-based learning and professional development to media literacies and empathy.  Amidst the many rich discussions emerged a particularly striking theme: how much our physical learning environments matter.

In all of my efforts to focus on my students, I've realized that I've zoomed in a bit too far.  Of course, I want to keep my community's learners at the center of our conversations, our planning, and our actions, but I cannot let that determined focus blur their surroundings.  It is a simple but profound truth that our environments shape us and can dramatically affect our capacity to thrive.  Relationships are and should be the core of any learning community, but the walls that surround us, the light that we let in, the sounds we generate, the connections we allow, and the energy that we nurture or repress can make or break a life.

In his keynote at the HB Summit, Bill Strickland reminded us, "If you build world class facilities, you will get world class students.  If you build prisons, you'll get prisoners."  One would think such a simple message would be self-evident, almost unnecessary to articulate, but its importance should not be underestimated.  As architects Ray Bordwell and Peter Brown shared with participants of their Educon conversation on Innovations in 21st Century Learning Spaces, research shows what an impact such elements as daylight, acoustics, air quality, color, ergonomics, space allocation, and mobility have on student learning, self-esteem, and health.  We all want to help develop world-class learners, brimming with passion, ambition, courage, hope, creativity, integrity, resourcefulness, and the capacity to thrive amid freedom rather than get lost in it.  And yet, too many of us find ourselves immersed in environments marked by stoicism, constraint, deprivation, and atrophy.  It is a crime in and of itself that one can even draw comparisons between contemporary schools and prisons.  No wonder so many of us feel restless.

Pondering the unfortunate capacity for a learning institution ultimately to "institutionalize" its inhabitants, two images from one of my favorite movies come to mind.  In The Shawshank Redemption, two former inmates of the prison are portrayed riding a bus after their release.  Their posture is shown but for a few seconds, but each pose speaks volumes.  First, Brooks Hadley is shown riding the bus to his new job bagging groceries, gripping the bar in front of him, as he was accustomed to doing for the fifty years that bars confined him.

Brooks emerged from his half-century "rehabilitation" to find a world completely unlike the one in which he was forced to remain.  The pace, challenges, and freedom were completely unfamiliar, and Brooks found himself yearning for a past to which he couldn't return.  His friends reflect on the power of the building's walls and recognize that Brooks had become "institutionalized."  The character known as Red explains,

The man's been in here fifty years... This is all he knows. In here, he's an important man. He's an educated man. Outside, he's nothin'... These walls are funny. First you hate 'em, then you get used to 'em. Enough time passes, you get so you depend on them. That's institutionalized.  

Indeed Brooks grew to depend on those walls and that artificial environment, and sadly, we watch as Brooks loses hope and is unable to cope.

In contrast, Red, also a long-term inhabitant of Shawshank, manages not to succumb to the same forces that crippled Brooks.  As Red rides a bus as a newly freed man, he is depicted resting by an open window, taking in the air and the sun, gazing ahead, clinging not to a bar but to hope.

It becomes clear that those walls left their mark on Red, but they did not take his life.  And with relief, we watch as Red is able to thrive.

Knowing the risks of institutionalization and the qualities the next generation needs to forge ahead, how can we apply the wisdom of Bill Strickland and the visionary architects who are designing learning spaces that help nurture world-class learners?  How can we effect positive change in the environments in which our students dwell?  How can we work to ensure that our schools not only better align with real life but are real life?  How can we create communities that poise each learner to leave our schools with a posture of empowerment and optimism?  These are the kinds of pressing issues that passionate educators are tackling together with the belief that our learning institutions can do better.  Ask those who have participated in events such as Educon, and most will attest to the power of such gatherings to energize, invigorate, and restore our faith in one another and our students.

No wonder so many of us still have hope.

Your Place in the Race

A race is a work of art that people can look at and be affected in as many ways as they're capable of understanding.

Steve Prefontaine

It wasn't that long ago that women were denied entry into distance running races.  Despite records of women having completed marathons in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, prior to 1968 women were not allowed to compete.  Many believed that females simply weren't fit for such athletic feats.  And so, decade after decade, officials declared that women had no place in the race.

This didn't stop women from running, of course.  There's an almost primal drive that compels some humans to move, to push, and to explore.  Despite my love for my comfy chair, blankets, and lap dog, I feel that drive.  I run to think, to quiet my thinking, to let out stress, to see the world, to appreciate nature, to feel alive.  I race myself, I cheer on others, and I love going further than I've ever gone before.  I simply can't fathom being told I'm not cut out for the challenge.

Just nine years before I was born, a determined young woman decided to show the world that despite policy, her place was not on the sidelines.  On April 19, 1967, Kathrine Switzer entered the all-male Boston Marathon, having signed up with just her initials.  That cold, rainy morning, with three male friends at her side and significant training under her belt, she stepped onto the starting line.  Off they went.  Word spread quickly that a woman had infiltrated, and though fellow runners supported her effort, race director Jock Semple made it his goal to remove her.

Boston, April 19, 1967,  photo courtesy of AP/Wideworld Photo via www.kathrineswitzer.com

Several miles into the race, having caught up on a truck, Semple lunged for Switzer, attempting to pull her off the course and yelling, "Get the hell out of my race and give me that race number."  Fortunately, two things occurred: Switzer's friends sprang into action, and a photographer captured the scene.  While one of Kathrine's friends struggled to loosen Semple's grip, Kathrine's 235-pound boyfriend, Tom, channeled his inner hockey player and cross-checked the old man.  Semple went flying.  Momentarily concerned for his well-being, Tom looked to Kathrine and said but three words: "Run like hell."  And that she did.

Kathrine finished the Boston Marathon.  She completed the distance in four hours and twenty minutes.  And yet her finish was just the beginning.  Her efforts, and the media attention from that race, helped compel the running community to officially recognize women as endurance athletes and welcome their participation.  Kathrine went on to run 35 marathons, winning the women's division of New York in 1974, and achieving a personal best of 2:51 in Boston the following year.  Two hours and fifty one minutes.  Were I to quit my job, train full time, tie on roller skates and a jet pack, I couldn't touch that time.  It's that good.

Thankfully, I've never experienced the kind of discrimination Switzer and her contemporaries did.  Though a few years ago, I did encounter an older gentleman who saw me on the starting line of a long-distance winter trail race and asked me if I was in the wrong location.  The short course began on the other side of the hill.  I told him I was indeed in the right place and smiled quietly as I passed him at the halfway mark.  He never caught up.  I did applaud him as he crossed the finish line, though the hot chocolate I was holding made it difficult.

me, having passed Dudley Doubtbag

I share Switzer's story with my students each year, as there are too many life lessons from it not to.  I ask them to ponder the courage it took Switzer and other pioneers to challenge the status quo.  I ask them to think about what might have happened if the photographer had not captured the interaction between Semper, Switzer, and her peers.  I ask them if such photos were captured and published today, how the Web would likely affect policy change.  I ask them if anyone has ever conveyed to them, directly or indirectly, that for some event or activity, they were better suited for the sidelines.

I wish I could be there to cross-check anything that attempts to hold my students back.  But I know I can't.  So instead I hope to help them discover how determination, hard work, and a good team of supporters can get them through just about anything in life.  And I hope they come to know that no matter what "race" their passion drives them to, nobody can tell them that they don't belong.  I want every one of my students to know that from now on I've got her back, and I'll be that little voice in her heart telling her to run like hell.

Follow Me

Image embedded from Life.com

Sixty nine years ago today, my great great uncle received word of the attack on Pearl Harbor from a place that would change the course of history -- he was at his desk as Superintendent of West Point, the United States Military Academy.  His journey as a leader had just taken a pivotal turn, and the students and educators whom he was leading were about to face a challenge as profound and real as they come.  Others in his position might have issued orders, articulated objectives, conveyed words of inspiration, and returned to their desk.  Uncle Bob, however, chose instead to say, "Follow me."

Image embedded from Life.com

In the aftermath of the attack, Robert Eichelberger left for the Pacific and took command of the 8th Army. He led men into battle, digging into the trenches with them, and insisting that those around him call him by his first name.  "I'd just as soon you called me Bob," Time Magazine reported him saying to an aide.  Respect was never lost, and in fact, lives may have been saved, as an audible "General" could have drawn additional fire from the enemy.

Eichelberger's leadership produced extraordinary results.  His men seized the first Allied victory in the Pacific theatre at the Battle of Buna.  Though he was never one to accept praise, Uncle Bob went on to make the cover of Time Magazine, ascended to become second in command to General Douglas MacArthur, and ended up retiring as a four-star general.  Throughout his journey, he continued to lead others in learning, training, and advancement and attributed every accolade to those around him.

This humility originated from the little boy he once was, the youngest of four brothers, who was often labelled an "underdog" and whose own father doubted his capacity to be accepted by West Point as a cadet.  "I doubt you'll get in," he was told.  Imagine if he had heeded those words.

Try as I may, I can never fully wrap my mind around the experience of my relative both as an academic leader and as a military strategist.  That so many lives depended on him, that he led by example, developed other leaders so well, and was the first to face fire inspires me.  Time described his students recalling him as "full of discipline with good humor, given to stopping cadets for chats on the walks, endowed with the name-memory of a hotel clerk.  Behind his back they (like his staff) called him 'Uncle Bob.'" (Time Magazine, September 10, 1945)

I often think, especially as the Pearl Harbor anniversary returns, that if I can emulate in my own environment a minute fraction of my uncle's leadership capability, I will be thrilled.  To move beyond doubt and cynicism, to rise to challenges, to lead by example, to build trust and earn respect, to connect with those in your care with humor and humanity, to honor everyone who contributes to your team's progress, is to have learned from his example.

I will return to school tomorrow, and while it is a vastly different era and context from 1941, I will take to heart and put into action my uncle's lessons.  Whatever "battles" I face, whatever challenges cross my desk, I will rise to the occasion with conviction and if ever I feel inclined to tell others what they ought to be doing, I will reflect on my own actions and invite those who are willing to follow my lead.

Uncle Bob can be seen by General MacArthur at the 10-second mark

"if you just dig"

CC image on Flickr by Zach Dischner

Dig within.  Within is the wellspring of Good; and it is always ready to bubble up, if you just dig.

Marcus Aurelius

Few would equate New England winters with a time of abundance and hope.  Frozen waters lay still, frost hardens the ground, and the sun's prolonged absence sends many bodies and spirits into hibernation.  In such harsh conditions, it hardly seems time to plant seeds, dig a well, or seek harvest of any kind.  Logic seems to tell us our efforts would be wasted.  Not now.  Save your energy.  Maybe later.  Who hasn't had this train of thought before?  And yet, one cold morning in February, 1985, in a suburb of Boston, a remarkable woman saw a need too great to let the season's conditions hold her back.  So, she ventured out with the few tools she had and a fierce determination to help sustain lives on whom winter was taking its toll.

Despite its proximity to several affluent communities, Hull, Massachusetts was experiencing economic hardship.  Many families struggled to put food on the table and keep warm.  School drop-out rates were disheartening, and businesses that once served as the lifeblood of this seaside community were forced to close their doors.  At the time, Hull seemed to lack fertile enough ground for much to take root.  But that didn't stop this woman on a mission.

Diane was not one to spot a problem and waste too much time talking about it.  And, so, she began collecting donations of food and clothing from neighbors and friends.  Her collections filled a single box at first, but it was a start.  And one, Diane insisted, was far better than none.

Diane then found a small storefront in Hull for lease, secured the space, and began transforming those donations into a food pantry and thrift shop.  She reached out to the community and engaged both those in need and those who could give.  She set up channels of communication and exchange and made this storefront the hub.  She called it Wellspring.  Families who were struggling to buy groceries and clothing found affordable resources and a steady supply of hope in the encouragement, counsel, and warmth of Diane and her volunteer staff.

In spite of its midwinter roots, Wellspring gained momentum and began to flow.  With Diane's vision and the enduring support and leadership of many staff, volunteers, partners, and community members, Wellspring continues to flourish and serve today.  Its services have expanded to include counseling, shelter from domestic violence, literacy programs, adult education, computer learning, career development, and continued sale of discounted books, meals, and household goods.  In 2002, the center's home expanded into a multi-storefront property.  And as a result of this organization, countless families have emerged from times of need, better positioned to thrive independently.  I don't think even Wellspring's founder could have imagined its reach or impact a quarter of a century later.

I also don't think Wellspring's founder could have imagined the lengths to which community members would go to support the cause.

Wellspring's Drowned Hogs, 2010

Every February, for fifteen years now, a group of hearty, brave souls known as the Drowned Hogs, have taken to the frigid waters of Nantasket Beach to raise money for Wellspring.  Each year they run in, some in costume, some in very little, while spectators gather along the shore.  Some choose to remain warm and dry and donate what they can.  Others dress up in banana costumes and viking hats and charge the waters with wild abandon, knowing the pledge sheets they've brought make the effort worthwhile.  And the magnificent thing is, they return in greater numbers every year.

And this past Tuesday, pro NFL running back, Kevin Faulk, returned to Wellspring for his third consecutive year to assist with the food bank, bringing a line of visitors and donors that went out the door.  Twenty five years after Wellspring opened with a handmade sign and a single box of donations, a pro football player appeared enthusiastically on the scene, ushering in new waves of support, resources, and hope.  Just imagine if in 1985 Diane had succumbed to winter's numbing forces and passed on the chance to dig.  I am so proud and so grateful that she didn't.

Now imagine your own environment and the needs that you identify on your journey.  What now?  As educators, we face some challenging circumstances and dilemmas: How many needs do we encounter that cause us to feel powerless?  How often does feeling powerless lead to passivity?  How many times are we faced with a dearth of resources?  How often does doubt prevail?  How can we overcome the perpetual feeling that it's not the right time to dig?

On the eve of another winter, I wish not to retreat into a slow rhythm of complacency.  I wish to be able to see seeds and visualize their growth.  I wish, despite cloud cover and layers of frost, to dig with determination, to nurture, and to let wellsprings bubble up.  I wish for the Drowned Hogs' screaming banana costume guy to silence any voices of doubt or procrastination.

Surely, no outcome is guaranteed, but no potential should remain untapped.  And life has shown me, through the works of my mom, that wonders may emerge, if you just dig.

License to Learn

CC image on Flickr by Jaimito Cartero

The majority of students that I teach are going through a significant transformation in life: they're learning to drive.  Most of us can remember what a momentous shift it was moving from the passenger's seat into the driver's.  Some embrace the experience with great enthusiasm, while others are apprehensive and uncertain.  Many display a combination of all three.

The significance of this transition occurred to me recently when one of my students completed her in-class, inquiry-based assignment "early" and expressed boredom while sitting at her Web-connected computer, waiting for her classmates to catch up.  "Really?" I wondered.  Really.  I knew it was time to have a talk.

It occurred to me that this brilliant student is beyond capable of sustained inquiry.  She possess the aptitude and skills to unearth a myriad of answers, evidence, causes, illustrative examples, and derivative questions.  Yet, as a product of an "obey the authority and follow along" schooling model, she was accustomed to doing exactly as asked and then waiting for her next order.  In short, she was used to being a passenger, not a driver.

All that she lacked, I discovered, was permission for pursuit-- in essence, a license to learn.  I decided I could not meet with her again soon enough to begin helping her to understand that no matter what the assigned task, her learning need not have limits.  You may dig deeper.  You may look further.  Don't worry about where your peers are with this task.  Go as far as you can go.

Of course this incident also gave me pause to reflect on the questions I pose to my students.  How conducive to exploration are they?  How relevant and engaging are my learners likely to find them?  I feel I can always do better.

I am a huge history buff and for years have pored over the correspondence between the exquisitely expressive John and Abigail Adams.  One sentiment expressed by Mrs. Adams to her husband as the North American colonies faced a new possible reality of independence from their sovereign ruler read as follows:

"You cannot be, I know, nor do I wish to see you an inactive spectator."

~ Abigail Adams to John Adams, 16 October 1774

Mrs. Adams was expressing her belief in the great potential of her husband's mind and her desire to see that mind in action.  Were I half as eloquent as Abigail, I would say the same thing to that "bored" student -- and to all of my students.  You ought not be inactive spectators in the classroom but rather active participants in pursuit of learning.  Know that you not only have my permission but my utmost support to seek, explore, push, challenge, connect, create, and share.  In past classes, worksheets may have had a final question, but your capacity for perpetual inquiry does not.

I know that one conversation with a student or class will not undo years of conditioning, but I hope that my dialogue, example, motivation, and influence will ignite a hunger for learning based on my student's passions.  I hope that with time I can extinguish any inclination for a computer-wielding student to say, "I'm done.  Now what?"  I want each one of my learners to know that they have a license to seek answers and questions as far as their mind will take them.

With this matter in mind, serendipitously, I tuned into the recent footage of the rescue of the 33 Chilean miners and dug up a t-shirt I bought during the semester that I lived in Santiago in the late 90s.

There it is, a message complementing the words of Mrs. Adams that I want to share with my kids.

I am right here with you.  Together, we will identify targeted destinations, and I will help you with suggested routes, tips, and fuel, but you are now in the driver's seat.  Buckle up, and go as far as you can go.

Digital Footprint PSA

I had just two minutes and a microphone.  Below is the message I shared with our Grades 6-12 students at assembly this morning.  Basic but important.

CC image on Flickr by HaoJan

I'm here to make a quick Public Service Announcement.  My intention is not to preach but rather to pass along some good advice.

Social media, which includes things like Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube, are amazing things.  They let us connect and share on a level we've never been able to before in history.  With this power, though, comes a tendency sometimes to overshare and to share without forethought.  I want to draw your attention to this trend, and beyond reminding you of our school's rules, I want to be sure you don't lose sight of the big picture.  

As those of you who've taken my class know, college reps, recruiters, and employers are not just looking at your grades, essays, recommendations, and test scores; they're Googling you.  They're reviewing your digital footprint, that is, your representation on the Web and the collection of marks left by your use of social media.  Your comments, tweets, photos, videos, and status updates may affect their decision whether or not to offer you a place in their organization.  And because they're carefully examining all this, so should you.

Keep in mind, a digital footprint is not a bad thing.  On the contrary, it can be a great thing.  It can reflect your participation in athletics and the community, and it can showcase your talents, intelligence, creativity, and humor.  The good news is, you can manage and maintain your digital footprint and make it work in your favor.

So, this weekend, I encourage you to take a few minutes to explore and, if necessary, clean up your digital footprint.  Here are four steps to get you on your way:

1. Google your name and any variations.  Be aware of your presence on the Web.  You don't want any surprises to arise during an interview down the road.  If you find something negative, talk to a teacher.  We'll help you.
2. If you use social media, check your privacy settings.  Make sure they're updated and reflect your (and your family's) willingness to share.
3. Review your friends list.  Refine it so that you're absolutely certain you're only sharing more personal ideas and items with those whom you know and trust and those who have your best interest at heart.
4. Finally, even with privacy settings in place, think before you post, and post as if... Post as if your parents or guardians can see everything.  Post as if the Head of School can see everything.  Post as if an admission rep from the college of your dreams can see everything.  Because, technically, it's possible.  And while you might have forgotten that you posted some off-the-cuff remark, the Web hasn't.  And I don't want anyone in this room missing out on an incredible opportunity in life because you posted something when you were tired, bored, annoyed, or just not thinking.

If you'd like help managing your digital footprint, if you have any questions about use of social media or our school's guidelines around use of technology, don't hesitate to see me.  I'm here as a resource and an advocate for you.  Thanks.

I need you

In May of 2000, my mother, the greatest educator I've ever known, fell into a coma.  Rushing back from an education conference in Kentucky, I joined her hospital bedside and remained there every minute that I could.  It was unclear whether she'd open her eyes again, but I strove to connect with her as if she would.  I relied on every sense I could engage, enveloping the room with the music she loved, letting a cup of fresh Dunkin' Donuts coffee sit with its lid off, holding her hand, and telling her stories, such as that of my encounter with the guy in Harvard Square who was wearing tie-dyed pants and yelling angrily at a pigeon.  For days she was unresponsive, yet I kept that vigil.  And then, quietly, one afternoon, she awoke.

Those beautiful brown eyes met mine, and I experienced gratitude like never before.  She was unable to speak and too weak to write, but her eyes made it clear that she had a lot to say.  At that point, her hospital room was full; doctors, nurses, family, and friends had gathered around.  I saw in her eyes confusion, fear, love, and frustration all at once.  She wanted to ask questions, relay what she was experiencing, ask for help, and yet she couldn't.  Until she locked eyes with me, held up one hand, and began to sign.

When I was young, my mom had taught me the sign language alphabet.  No one close to us was deaf, but my mom always stressed the value and beauty of communication in all its forms.  And so, together, we learned each letter, and practiced sharing messages in public when we were out of earshot or unable to talk.  I always found it cool to have a special means of "talking," but I couldn't have imagined its significance one day.

In a moment, I became her voice.  She spelled out each word, and I shared it with the room.  She'd nod with relief once her message was received and smiled bigger each time she successfully expressed herself.  I was literally giddy, and the moment she spelled out "g-u-m," I ran to the gift shop and bought every flavor they had in stock.  She just shook her head and giggled.

Her health wavered over the subsequent weeks.  There were highs and lows, but it was three words that she scribbled on a piece of paper that profoundly impacted me.  With a weak hand resulting in a slightly lopsided "n," she wrote "I need you."  I haven't been the same person since.

This person who initially showed no response, who couldn't demonstrate to me what she could or couldn't understand, who was afraid and upset with her circumstances, ultimately found her method of connecting.  She let me know, in her own way, that my efforts were not wasted.  If I hadn't been paying attention, I might have missed it.

What a powerful lesson this experience has offered as an educator.  And I'm not one bit surprised.  After all, my mom had for years taught children, adolescents, and even adults in prison.  She had raised two teenagers, bombarding us with "I love you" no matter how much eye rolling or sighing ensued.  It mattered not whether our response was immediate, appreciative, or clear.  She sought to connect with her children and learners, whatever it took.

I can only imagine what beauty would transpire were my mom able to teach in a classroom of today, with diverse methods for communicating, sharing, and demonstrating understanding.  I would be in awe, I would be humbled, and I'd be taking notes furiously in an attempt to pass onto my own students a portion of her gift.

My mom passed away ten years ago this past Sunday.  And yet I find myself less saddled with grief and more inspired to continue learning from her.  I will continue to attempt to connect with each of my students, even in the face of unresponsiveness.  I will maintain hope.  I will celebrate each success.  And I will pay careful attention just in case I discover that a student, in her own way, has shown that she needs me.

"He broke a rule, and I can't praise him enough for it."

CC image on Flickr by selva

Nine years ago my friend made a decision that saved his life.  He went against everything he'd been told for years, used his own judgment, and is alive today because of it.

Mike worked on one of the top floors of Tower 2 of the World Trade Center.  After the first tower was hit, he received word from upper management that there was no reason to panic and workers should return to their desks.  Mike's gut told him otherwise.  And so, at the risk of behaving as an insubordinate worker, Mike headed for the stairwell.  It had been drilled into his head, as it has been for many of us, that in case of emergency, you should take the stairs, not the elevator.  And so he began his descent.

The stairwell Mike entered was soon a crowded one in which the pace of movement was excruciatingly slow.  In more time than his instinct was comfortable with, he had only descended 20 stories.  More than 80 remained.  Remembering that there was an express elevator to the ground floor in one of the nearby lobbies, Mike stood immobile, with a decision before him.  He could do as he was told and remain in the stairwell, or gamble on the express exit.  Assessing the situation and using his judgment, he chose the latter.

Squeezing his way into the nearby lobby, Mike stood as close to an elevator door as he could get.  As people continued to pour in behind him, he soon found himself once again immobile and for a moment wondered if he had made the right decision.  And then he heard a ping.

The elevator doors in front of him opened, and Mike stepped forward.  As many as could entered, and down they went.  Mike made it out.

He's spoken little of what he saw, heard, and felt as he stepped outside.  I'm not surprised.  I can't imagine the challenge of working through those kinds of sensory memories.  And I can only hope that time has helped him heal.

I also can't imagine the panic his parents experienced as they watched the media coverage that day and went without word from their son for hours.  My father, an ordained minister, drove over to support and comfort Mike's family during this ordeal.  Mike's dad left his office and drove home as quickly as he could to join his wife.  Arriving there after my father had, I imagine the image of a priest sitting in his living room at least momentarily made Mike's dad fear the worst.

Eventually Mike reached a working phone and made the call to his family that so many waiting loved ones were praying for that day.  What emotions must have run through that home.

Weeks later Mike's mom spoke to the community, thanking them for their outpouring of love and made a point of commenting on her son's judgment that day.  "He didn't do what he'd been told," she said, both smiling and tearing up.  "He broke a rule, and I can't praise him enough for it."  Those words have stayed with me for years.

I can't begin to relate to what Mike and his family went through that day.  What I can take away, aside from the gratitude I feel for his survival, is the lesson offered in the value of judgment superseding policy and protocol.  If you haven't yet watched Barry Schwarz's TED Talk on "our loss of wisdom," you must.  He eloquently explains how "rules often fail us" and emphasizes the urgent need for all of us, especially educators, to apply "practical wisdom" in our everyday lives.  He argues that a wise person:

• knows when and how to make "the exception to every rule"
• knows when and how to improvise
• knows how to use moral skills in pursuit of the right aims
• is made and not born

Our world would be a better place with more wise people.  And we educators have the power to affect how much wisdom pervades our world.  I find that both daunting and overwhelmingly inspirational.

As I face this nascent academic year with my students, my hope is to help them develop their sense of judgment.  I hope I can help them discover both the value of rules and the occasions when our wisdom may justifiably compel us to break them.

Mike's story teaches us not that stairwells are less safe or that emergency procedures have no merit.  Instead, it illustrates how critical thinking, analysis, judgment, and courage can be our most powerful survival skills in life.  His story also teaches us how good fortune, whatever you believe its source to be, is something that we ought to actively appreciate daily.

And so, I am grateful that my friend is alive, that his family has peace, and that his story offers some profound life lessons.  And I'm grateful to be in a position where I can connect learners to those lessons.  It just so happens I was supposed to use a different lesson plan on Monday -- one without Mike's story, but I've decided... I think I'll break the rules.

The Power of Flexibility

Flexibility, as displayed by water, is a sign of life. Rigidity, its opposite, is a sign of death.

~Anthony Lawlor

CC image on Flickr by Auntie K

As a former ballet dancer, a teacher, and a technologist, it dawned on me what incredible power there is in flexibility.  It's not uncommon to assume an easily movable object is a flimsy one.  People tread nervously across suspension bridges and balk at the thought of buying a camera tripod as silly-looking as this one. And yet, the more I think about it, the more I realize the ingenuity and inherent power in flexibility. Surveying many educational environments reveals that some of our most powerful assets as teachers and learners are, in fact, the most flexible ones.  These assets include the wires beneath our school grounds, the resources we find online, and most importantly, our very selves.

The first time I learned about fiber optics, I remember responding with an articulate Bill-and-Ted-like "Whoa."  Pondering the fact that this cutting-edge Internet connectivity not only offers unprecedented bandwidth but nearly limitless possibility for growth, is mind-blowing.  As the immortal Fisch-McLeod collaboration "Shift Happens" highlighted, fiber optics:

 pushes 10 trillion bits per second down one strand of fiber... [is] currently tripling about every 6 months and is expected to do so for at least the next 20 years.  The fiber is already there, they're just improving the switches on the ends.  Which means the marginal cost of these improvements is effectively $0.

And to think -- more and more places of learning are connecting to one another via this infrastructure that is robust and infinitely scalable.  As I said, "Whoa."

With more of these lightning-fast connections at our doorstep, we find ourselves within reach of some of the most powerful learning resources that have ever existed on Earth.  Simulations, animations, readings, publishing platforms, images, audio, video, discussion fora, and networks of experts and passionate learners abound.  The quantity of choices intimidates many.  However, the beauty of having so many choices, the beauty of digital media itself is its inherent flexibility and potential to serve all learners.  As CAST outlines in its Universal Design for Learning, digital media offers:

1. multiple ways of presenting information and concepts
2. multiple ways of expressing ourselves and demonstrating understanding, and
3. multiple ways of becoming engaged with and motivated by the learning process

Think about that.  Learner differences, flawed assessments, and apathy can all find solutions within the flexibility of digital media.  That is power.

Now that we've reflected on the flexibility and capacity of our wires and media, how are we doing as educators and leaders?  How poised are we to grow, scale, and reach beyond our existing state?  What more can we do to ensure that schools' technology infrastructure and resources are not disproportionately more flexible and therefore powerful than their people?

Tradition and precedence are strong forces, and in any capacity, "stretching" is often unpopular.  It requires time and patience, both of which are a premium in our over-scheduled lives.  However, athletes, dancers, yogis, and the health conscious alike will attest to the fact that taking the time to stretch one's muscles has numerous benefits.  Stretching improves performance, allows for greater range of movement, prevents injuries, and aids in recovery from exertion.  And it feels good.  Why should we not make it a priority to improve our own flexibility as educators and learners at every available opportunity?

My "stretching" is my ongoing professional development.  I do a little each day on Twitter, Google, and Skype.  Whenever I can, I seek out chances for more extensive, intensive PD.  At each turn, my ideas multiply, my reach expands, and my willingness to lean into the momentum of these changing times fortifies my capacity to lead students in powerful learning and growth.

"As You Want to See Us"

John Hughes's cult classic, The Breakfast Club, ends beautifully in two ways: First, it employs the magical 80s fist pump.  Try as they may, no member of MTV's Jersey Shore can top it.

Second, the movie closes with a simple letter from the students serving detention to their principal.  The letter reads as follows:

Dear Mr. Vernon, We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong...but we think you're crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us... in the simplest terms and the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain... and an athlete... and a basket case... a princess... and a criminal.  Does that answer your question?  Sincerely yours, The Breakfast Club

It occurred to me how easy it is for some educators, especially at the start of a school year, to classify students based on first impressions, hearsay, a preliminary assessment, or a review of a learner's past transcripts.  Instead of September being a time of renewal, an opportunity to build upon one's strengths, tap into one's passions, and improve in areas of struggle, it can become the time when teachers set in red ink their diagnoses for the year: good writer; poor problem solver; prodigy; handful; average.

It is normal to have first impressions; it is the job of an educator not to cling to them.  One incredible teacher of mine embodied this principle, and I remain grateful to him to this day.

Charles Ozug taught high school English among a large and seasoned faculty, yet what made him remarkable was his determination not to let bias influence his assessments.  Unlike any teacher I'd had before, he insisted that students submit each assignment using a pseudonym.  Simply put, as he evaluated student work, he didn't want to know whose composition he was analyzing.  Each project was a clean slate, a chance for every student to put her best foot forward despite any previous impressions.  Of course, post-review, pseudonyms were reconciled with the class roster, and Mr. Ozug examined our individual progress.  He saw potential for improvement in all of us and made that known.  I never felt more respected or optimistic as a learner, and the positive trajectory that he set is still paying off today.  I strive to instill in my own students that sense of perpetual opportunity and renewal, all year long, regardless of what feedback they've received prior.

In a twist of fate, fifteen years after my high school graduation, while preparing a lesson plan for my own class using the StoryCorps web site, I came across a recorded conversation by Charles Ozug.  In it, he spoke with his son, and shared the story of how a cardiac arrest left him with permanent brain damage.  Unable to create new memories, Mr. Ozug also lost nearly each memory of ever having taught.

Needless to say, I was deeply saddened to learn that this extraordinary educator cannot recall the interactions he had with his students, nor the impact he had on our lives.  He who masterfully offered each project as a clean slate is now deprived of the gift of remembering.  Moved by this realization, I developed an unprecedented appreciation for memory and the power of recorded words.

Consequently, I decided to write Mr. Ozug a letter, reminding him of the tremendous impact he had on my learning and how I work to pay it forward with my own students today.  That letter remains one of the most meaningful pieces of writing I've composed to date.  I know for a fact I wouldn't have had the courage to write anything like it had he not been my teacher.

Come September, many educators will size up their students early on, forming a sense of who's who from all the evidence they have at bay.  Great educators, though, will archive those conclusions as drafts and present each challenge to students as an opportunity for revelation, free from bias.  Under these conditions, incredible academic and personal growth can occur.

My hope is that more educators will not resort to viewing their students as they want to, "in the simplest terms, and the most convenient definitions."  My hope is that, as often as possible, students experience failure as a chance for recovery and advancement as momentum for further progress.  My hope is that, to the best of my ability, I can emulate Mr. Ozug's example and create positive memories of learning that will last a lifetime.  With the help of my colleagues far and near, and with a foundation set by an extraordinary high school English teacher, I believe I can.