Satisfactory or Outstanding? What the Checklist Cannot Measure

The time has come for my second teacher evaluation of the year. Despite the fact that I stand in front of nearly a hundred teen-agers every day, the thought of one administrator sitting in the back of the room makes me nervous. Many of my colleagues and friends echo the same feelings. Don’t get me wrong. I think it is important to be evaluated, to be expected to bring my “A” game, to have someone keep tabs on what I am doing. But the observation form is almost laughable in its simplicity. A current seating chart? Check. What is the objective of the day? Check. What type of technology are you incorporating into your lesson? Checkity check.

But how could someone observing one period of one class possibly understand what l do all day, and all year, and perhaps, (when I am in an optimistic mood and all the stars align just so), what lessons I teach that last long into the future? I don’t blame the admins for trying, but there is no way to put into words (or boxes), the magic I make each day and the connections I create.

How could they know about the girl who was suspended from school for a cafeteria fight, never turned in assignments, begged me all second quarter for extra credit to bring up her F, and (because I knew she could do it) worked her tail off to bring the grade up herself when I said no.  She currently has an  A and is writing beautiful poetry.  Or how can they learn about the kid whose mom was frustrated that he got a C+, but when I explained that her son liked to brag about not studying and goofed around in class,  and I advised that he could work a little harder, he took it to heart? Two quarters later, he’s sporting an A+.  Fifty minutes in my class can show my boss that I  can answer essential questions, create a variety of assessments, and teach the material, but it is not enough time to explain how I raise the bar and expect the best out of each student in my room.

Among all the gradebook victories, showing up as a caring human is just as important. I’ve hugged a sobbing student who broke down in the middle of the class talking about her recently deceased uncle, counseled a boy who even in April has only managed to narrow down his college choice to FIVE schools, prayed with a girl whose parents have split up, consoled a boy whose Ivy League dreams did not come true, and negotiated the rough waters of literature and life with many others. Again, there are no boxes for the administrator to check. Human relationship are tricky at best, and high school relationships especially. These students and I have seen each other at our best and worst.  Imagine motivating a student on the first day back from Christmas break, or when the thermometer hits 70 and she is dreaming of being anywhere but here. The world we live in does not help. My classroom is filled with snapchats and mean tweets, Promposals and break-ups. Somehow in the midst of this chaos, I am supposed to connect, cajole, coddle and create. I love the challenge, and on most days I make it all work, but there is no rubric for these moments that matter.

So sure, come to evaluate my teaching. But don’t expect to get the whole story while you are checking off the boxes. What you can’t see is way more important than what you can: The trust built over months and months of working hard together, the comfort created when I read and evaluate  what they write, the lessons they receive when I challenge them to give a little more effort than they’d like. What we do matters, in the moment and for their future. And no matter who is watching, I give it my all.

Garden Wisdom

I had a bad week at work. The kind that ends with the principal calling you at home on the weekend and catapults you into the next week with a rock in your stomach. There were several reasons, but fundamentally, my ideas of planting seeds and helping teens grow up do not always mesh with everyone.

But even in the dark moments, I do love my job. Most students get it:  We are always more than we imagine, and we can work harder than we ever dream. Reading and writing matter in the present and for their future.  I cultivate magic in my classroom and my life, and most times the rabbit really does get pulled out of the hat.

I  had a beautiful moment with a student poet the other day. One of her lines read “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.” It fit perfectly in her writing, and I told her my dad had the phrase hanging in his office, although it sounded a little sweeter written in Latin on his poster.   My student had had a hard week too. Her grandma died and I had taken some time  to grieve with her. I was surprised to see her in class with a grief so raw, but the poetry flew from her fingers that morning. Magic. Words can always heal, and she was so proud of her creation.

I couldn’t find that healing today. I tried everything  to forget the impending Monday meeting and the anger directed at me and the inadequacies such events always stir up in my heart. I’ll wear my boots of course, which give me a feeling of power, and my Choose Happiness bracelet, but the rock has been in my stomach all day. For a woman who always brings her “A game”, who works for hours at home to innovate for her students,  who gives up time with my own children to help other people’s children grow up, these moments of conflict always bring me down.

I ran through my go-to happiness list. Certain places always heal me. But today, the beach didn’t help. Took my boys to throw rocks and find driftwood and watch the barely frozen lake move with the tide. But no luck for my heart. Cooking didn’t help either. The mindless chopping of veggies for potato soup and the buffalo chicken dip my daughter requested didn’t make a dent in my mood.

But I finally found my balm in the garden. My eight year old and I have had an action packed weekend. We’ve played hours of lacrosse in the front yard,  And we hand-washed the car yesterday like my dad and I used to do. Today, we hit the garden. He’s such a hard worker, and was turning the soil and chopping the lumps with a spade when he taught me the very best thing.   

“Mom, since we have two gardens, could we grow food in this one for us, and grow food for the poor people in the other one?”  He had all sorts of ideas on what to grow and how we could get the vegetables to the poor people. Not bad for an eight year old. We worked in comfortable silence for a while until he said, “I bet it would bring us closer to Jesus.”

And in a few minutes’ time, dirt under my fingernails and cold tingling my nose, I finally got the message, delivered through my father and my son. Get closer to Jesus.  Don’t let the bastards grind me down. Share with the poor.... the poor in money and the poor in spirit. The seeds I plant will germinate...at their own rate and in His time. Sometimes the seeds stay in the dark a very long time, but all good works will bloom eventually.

So,  I’ll keep on showing up and cultivating magic, with the poet in my fourth period who is mourning,  with my literature students who deserve my high expectations and creative ideas,  and especially with my little boy who never fails to teach me.