The archive of the session is available for viewing if you’re interested. #

One oddity for me – as my video link into the room was from the webcam of a laptop on the podium, I had zero sense of the physical audience in the room and relied on the tweets and texts from those in attendance as my only sense of the audience.  That’s always one tricky element of presenting from afar – the sense of the room. #

I am grateful to Jeff Golub for starting this collection of smart folks three years ago – I’ve sure learned lots.  Hope it’s been useful to NCTE. #

If you were “there” for the session, either via Adobe Connect or in the room, I’d love to know your impressions of the time – did it work that I was not physically there, or was that more distraction than helpful? #

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I shared this with them, a distillation of some of the descriptive and prescriptive ideas I’ve written about blogs and blogging and bloggers.  I tried to emphasize that good blogging, is a simple set of skills: reading, writing and thinking, although not necessarily in that order.  Good blogging is a continuation of the tradition of good writers and folks from pre-digital times, too.  Good blogging is paying attention and asking good questions. Thomas Paine’s name came up. #

Good blogging, too, is hard to do well.  It’s play dressed up to look like work.¹ #

My comments were nested in some of my thinking over at P2PU about the Common Core standards and what they have to say about reading and writing.  I dropped the s-bomb a few times.  Not because I wanted to, but because David Coleman, one of the architects of the standards, who’s now out on the road teaching folks what the CCSS are about, did in a talk a while back.  The larger talk he gave was about how the CCSS shifts the focus from some areas of literacy² to others, namely more emphasis on informational text and close reading and writing. #

I don’t mind that shift.  And I think some others have over exaggerated it.  But what I do mind very much is when he says this: #

Do people know the two most popular forms of writing in the American high school today? Texting someone said; I don’t think that’s for credit though yet. But I would say that as someone said it is personal writing. It is either the exposition of a personal opinion or it is the presentation of a personal matter. The only problem, forgive me for saying this so bluntly, the only problem with those two forms of writing is as you grow up in this world you realize people really don’t give a shit about what you feel or what you think. What they instead care about is can you make an argument with evidence, is there something verifiable behind what you’re saying or what you think or feel that you can demonstrate to me. It is rare in a working environment that someone says, “Johnson, I need a market analysis by Friday but before that I need a compelling account of your childhood.”³ #

Read like a detective and write like a conscientious investigative reporter. #

Sounds great, and there’s only one problem. #

Suppose the students whom you want to blog and write and bleed their passions on a digital page somewhere as a way of learning to read and write and think just don’t care? #

Suppose they’re indifferent about learning?   Or at least appear to be.  What do we do about that?  And what did we do to make that happen? #

1. Sometimes, with footnotes.  Footnotes look much too workish to be fun, right?
2. Read: the personal.
3. Link to the video – about 8:30 on the time code.  The unofficial transcript I’m quoting from is here.  The off the cuff reference to not giving a shit, surprisingly, isn’t in the “official transcript.”
4. One concern I do have about the CCSS is the same that I do about education policy in general right now; who decides “what counts?”
5. Which I think is the right model to aim for.

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A few weeks previously, I had begun my teaching career as a graduate student teaching freshman composition in room 110 of the Natural Resources Building at Colorado State University.  I remember room 110 very well because it was where, six years previously, I took my first English class as an undergraduate at the school.  Introduction to Literature. ² #

As an undergraduate, it was my job, I thought, to unpack the secrets of the stories and novels and plays that we read together.  And I wrote.  Lots.  Every week, I produced two typed pages of thinking and reflection and wondering about what I was reading and why it mattered.  This was college.  It was important. #

And back in room 110, with my class of college freshfolk, I was in charge of helping them to unlock the mysteries of the College Essay, the texts that they were expected to produce early and often in their college careers.  These 18 and 19 year olds were looking to me, a 23 year old grad student, to provide them with the keys to college literacy.  Or, they had to take the class, and I was in their way.  Either way, there we were, from 10:00 to 10:50 every MWF. #

September 11th was a Tuesday.  I remember because that made September 12th a Wednesday.  At 10:00am, I was supposed to “teach.” And no one said otherwise. #

I made one of the most important discoveries of my teaching career that day³, when I decided that class would be optional.  It made sense to go.  People, I thought, were counting on me to make sense of this.  And that couldn’t be done. #

But there was something I could do. #

I emailed the class that no one had to be there, but that I would be there.  Attendance, for a change, would not be taken. #

I didn’t expect anyone to show up.  But they came.  Not all, but most. #

And I started class.  Sitting on a table in the front of the room, I reminded folks that no one had to stay that morning.  I would not advance the syllabus.  Instead, we were together, and something monumental had happened.  What, I wondered, did folks want to talk about? #

And I don’t actually remember the specifics.  I remember that there was lots of misinformation and rumor in the air that morning, and that mostly, as someone who had read several articles, watched some CNN, and had spent the previous afternoon in the newsroom of the student paper, where I had worked as an undergraduate, and would work again that Spring, and pulled everything I could off the AP wire as it was released, I was likely the “expert” in the room. #

Like that makes any sense. #

But I dispelled rumor where I could, suggested sources for folks to explore if they wanted to know more.  I mentioned the school’s counseling program for students.  And it was quiet.  Not silent, but much quieter than a usual day of argument and conversation.  We were together, but we weren’t really talking all that much. #

I guess it was just normal, or whatever on September 12th could approximate normalcy in the wake of the events of the day before, and normal, on September 12th, 2001, felt pretty good.  It was enough. #

On Friday, September 14th, we resumed talk of what makes good summary, and how to use others’ ideas in the services of our own, and all the things that you talk about in a college writing class. #

We kept going. #

And now, as we look back and consider all that’s happened in the world in the last ten years, and how that day changed this country, and me, and most other folks I know in some way, I get the feeling that keeping going is a pretty good way to honor that day. #

By all means, take a deep breath and a look back.  Think about what happened and what that changed or what that didn’t change.  Reach out if you need or want an ear.  Look after yourself.  Consider what’s worth doing and what’s worth remembering and what’s worth working to restore.  But then, one last deep breath. #

There’s much to do. #

Let’s keep going. #

1. Sure.  September 11th.  I woke to the phone ringing and was told to turn on the news.  I’d been married for all of three months and what I saw on TV didn’t make sense.  Still doesn’t sometimes.
2. I sat next to What’s Her Name, who took good notes and who, three years later, I would date.  Once.  And screw that up royally by inviting a friend over to watch television with us.  As I drove her home, I backed into a car in the street behind my apartment.  It did not go well.  A second date was dodged.  By her. Repeatedly.  I didn’t understand what happened there, either, until much later.
3. The discovery, for me, was in two parts – first, that the world doesn’t stop when you start your class.  Be of the world and in the world as often as you’re about and/or removed from the world. The second part is about modeling and how teachers, in some sense, are always on.  We are always being seen as teachers.  So might was well act like one, even if, at 23 then, and 33 now, I don’t always have a clue as to what that means or should look like.  ”What would a teacher do?” is a question I approach as I prepare for any class or learning experience.  And it’s one I’ll always struggle with.  But in this case, a teacher would dig in.  Check facts.  Explore sources.  A teacher would seek to be sure his students were okay.  A teacher would pause and reflect.  So that’s what we did.

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We read a sample teacher research study that Michelle and I are fond of.  I like the study, a short piece on a teacher wondering about the value of a pullout literacy program in her school, because it emphasizes three things I think are essential to consider, and often re-consider, when ot comes to teacher inquiry specifically and qualitative research generally: #

1. Teacher research is an opportunity to dig into the “I wonders” and the “what ifs” that come up from time to time in your classroom.  But it’s not the same as “what good teachers do every day.”  It’s more intentional and purposeful than that.  And that’s a good thing.
2. Teacher research is contextual.  It comes from you, the researcher.  The classroom you teach in, the students you know, the wonderings you have.  That works two ways – both the questions and your answers to them are contextual.
3. Teacher research involves “data” that doesn’t show up in a quantitive study.  Stuff that doesn’t count because it can’t be counted.  Or, at least, not as easily.  And what matters, or at least what should, when it comes to measurement and paying attention is not either/or but yes and.  Qualitative and quantitative measures are friends.  Honest¹ .

Folks make statements, when we start to fiddle with traditional notions of “data,”² about their stats professors, or n values, or other things that suggest that Math Is THE Way of Knowing The Universe. #

While I find lots to like in science and math, it’s not the only way to go after what’s right and good and true in the world. #

Teachers, of all people, should have a good and always developing sense of this: they should know and understand what it means to measure, and how measurement affects the thing you’re measuring, and how there are ways other than percentages and standard deviations to explore vital areas of life and living and learning. #

If you think that’s wrong, and that cold, hard numbers are the only way to Know Something, well, consider this - #

How do you know you love your spouse?  Your best friend?  Your children?  Your parents? #

Prove it. #

But you only get numbers.  I’ll wait here.  Take your time. #

1. As I write this, I’m in the middle of a mixed-methods study.  The two go nicely together.
2. And the air quotes make appearances usually at this point in the conversation.

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The DLC, if you didn’t know, is a two-year professional development program we’re in our third year of developing.  Year one is a year for personal and professional learning.  Year two, which we’ll kickoff later this month for a different cohort, is a year of teacher inquiry into what happens for students when we use technology in the classroom. #

Last night, we attempted, with our teacher team leaders, to set the culture for what it means to learn as teachers in community.  We reviewed some of our habits – making sure we have a plan for all of our monthly team meetings, how we use Google Docs to share those plans and to share notes we take when and as we meet, and making sure that we’re separating time for learning¹ from time for collaboration and sharing.   And, yes, that’s messy.  Messy is okay. #

But we spent the bulk of our time last night reading and thinking and talking to each other about a couple of pieces, written by Will Richardson, that explore connected and passion-based learning not just for students, but for teachers, too. #

That led to some good conversation.  I heard Kelly, a first grade teacher, when she asked about how we help connect students to passions that they might not realize they have, and how we can encourage students to explore areas of themselves and the world when they might not have any knowledge about, well, much of anything.  I heard Rebekah, a high school math teacher, when she said that somewhere, students have learned that it’s cool to not like math. #

I hope that folks heard me when I invoked Mr. Rogers, and his definition of teaching, the idea that what teachers do is that they love something, and they love it in front of their students.  Passion, indeed. #

I heard Mollie when she said that it was important for teachers and students to follow their passions, and that, in a time of scripts and pacing, we’d do well to make sure that we’re injecting student interests and differences into our work. #

I heard others, too.  It was a fine culture setting conversation. #

We also talked about the power of reflective writing, and took some time to write together, as we will do during all of our meetings.  While I cannot share their writing with you just now, know that we’ll be hearing more from these teacher leaders and their teams as they begin to dig into their learning this year. #

It was a fine start. #

1. Sometimes, this is training.  Other times, it’s time for reading and conversation.  There are other things this learning might look like, too.  Learning is complicated.

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Engchat 2011 from Ben Grey on Vimeo.¹ #

1. Special thanks to Ben for spending time capturing this work.

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When and where are you writing with your students? #

I say this is a simple question, because, well, it is. You should have an answer to this question, and I hope that the answer is something like “Often. And Everywhere.” #

But too often, the answer is more like “I really should, but we’re just so busy.” Or, worse, the answer devolves into an explanation of how the answerer isn’t a writing teacher, but teaches math, or science, or something else. #

That’s just not good. #

Writing is the gateway to understanding. In fact, it’s in the composition of ideas or responses or summary that we really begin to own the learning that we’re doing. #

I try to anticipate the “but I’m not a writer” answer, too. I have a slide that’s found its way into many of the talks and workshops that I give. It looks like this: #

#

I hope that folks understand that I am less interested in that they are spending time with words than they are with the tools of composition and making things. School is too often too passive – a study of only what other people have made, rather than a study of making things of one’s own. #

So, when I ask teachers about when and how often they’re writing with students, I’m trying to presume that such making is occurring in our classrooms. But it’s not. Or, at least, people are keeping their making secret¹. #

I thought it would make sense to attack a few of the answers that I hear for why writing isn’t happening on a regular basis. Others’ statements are in bold. My responses to them are not. #

I’m not a writing teacher. #

One doesn’t need to instruct students on writing in order to get writing to learn to happen in one’s classroom. While it’s never a bad idea to read or otherwise engage at least some of the writing that you ask students to do, it’s not necessary that the focus of taking time to write should be on assessing the writing, or correcting student errors. There’s a time and place for that. But it’s certainly okay to ask students to use writing as a tool for understanding, for memory, or for exploration. #

Don’t grade it.  But make time for writing. #

I’m not a highly-qualified writing teacher. #

This is a variation of the previous – but is worthy of its own response. “Highly-qualified” is baggage language brought into the classroom from educational policy. Since the federal government has cheapened the value of the phrase, I’d say we should strongly reconsider it ourselves. #

Of course you’re a highly-qualified writing teacher. You’ve used writing to successfully complete your instructional goals in the past. You write email to parents and to colleagues and administrators. Somewhere, you probably picked up how to create a resume, or construct a letter of interest that got you your current teaching job. You read. Lots.² You are highly-qualified to be a thoughtful reader and writer of your students’ work. #

You’re also highly-qualified to be a cheerleader, a coach, and an enthusiastic challenger of what your students produce and share.  But you can’t be any of those things if you’re not making anything or asking them to. #

I teach math³, so my emphasis isn’t on writing. #

Baloney⁴.  Your emphasis, be you a teacher of equations, or of the scientific method, or of how to ensure the proper fuel/air mixture in a V-6 engine, is on helping your students to explore and discover the world.  Writing, as a tool for exploration, or declaration, or narrative, or whatever you do with words and ideas, is a part of your work.  Show me a mathematician who doesn’t write.  Point me towards a scientist who isn’t taking good notes or publishing and sharing her work.  Name an engineer that you know that doesn’t sketch or draft or fiddle with a pencil from time to time? #

You can’t.  So your students can’t not write, either. #

There’s no time for writing.  We’ve got so much stuff to cover. #

You aren’t in the coverage business.  You’re in the student learning business.  And if you want them to learn the thing that you’re teaching, then they’d better be doing that thing, and thinking about that thing, and modeling their understanding of that thing in some constructive and/or reflective way.  Period.  There’s no time to not write.  Learning’s too important to leave up to osmosis. #

Those’re a few of the more common excuses I hear for why teachers aren’t taking time to write with their students.  What have I missed?  Let me know in the comments. #

And – make time for writing.  Soon.  It’s important. #

1. That is another problem probably worthy of it’s own post – why keep that secret?
2. I desperately hope that you do. If you’re a teacher who isn’t still reading, well, that’s also worthy of its own post.
3. Or science, or history, or underwater basket weaving.
4. Or, if you prefer, bologna.

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Enter #EduConText. #

Each day leading up to EduCon, Zac Chase and I will write about some of our thinking surrounding selected EduCon sessions.  We’ll also share some questions to prompt your own thinking and inquiry around the ideas we see that might arise in the session.  There are plenty of fine sessions at the conference.  We’ll pick a few of them.  You choose some others. #

#EduConText is about moving into EduCon conversations with the same critical lenses we help our students refine each day. Because a rah rah chorus of excitement and enthusiasm isn’t really going to do much to make our schools better places. #

And, of course, the Internet is a free place. For now.  So you should feel free to write along with us.  Prompt us.  Share your thinking.  Preflect on the conversations you’re planning on joining. Dig in. #

During EduCon, we’ll be supplying some writing prompts to help attendees, both virtual and face to face, archive their written thinking around the conversations in which they take part.  Because your learning is worth remembering. #

After EduCon, we’ll encourage folks to set writing goals for themselves that will allow them to reflect on how they incorporate new ideas into their practice and around documenting what they want to be sure to keep. #

How can you participate? #

Simply add the tag “#EduConText”¹ to your blog, wiki, and twitter posts (or any other kind of post). From there, we’ll archive the tag and see what we build.  Mostly, we hope that #EduConText is a gentle reminder to write and write often about what you’re seeing, hearing and thinking. #

Worth doing, right? #

Let’s get to it. #

1. Or “educontext.”  Either way.

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I’ve been noticing a shift in my tone lately, from my usual kind and questioning self to someone a bit angrier and less willing to inquire. Specifically, twice in the last two weeks, I’ve found myself slinging a bit more dislike than I’m comfortable slinging, as I’ve used Twitter to make remarks that I believe have been misconstrued.¹ #

The first case was a series of tweets about a presentation that I was very disappointed in, but that others found “amazing.”² The second was my response to the release of a new publication that doesn’t make much sense to me. #

As I’ve named and discussed this issue with Steven before, I’ll tell you that it was his session at the Reform Symposium (Elluminate link) that I found objectionable. I don’t particularly want to rehash that now, except as an example of my behavior. I don’t think it was wrong to challenge the content of his presentation, but it wasn’t right of me to begin that challenge via some ventish tweets, either.³ #

I think it’s important to be in conversation with people with whom we disagree. I think there’s much to learn from such interactions. We can be thoughtful and I think people are special, whatever their opinions, and deserve some basic respect. The only problem is, I’m not sure that I’ve been giving that lately. #

I think that one is too often seen as confrontational and rude when disagreement or challenge enters a conversation. And I don’t think that’s the way that it should be. But I know that treading lightly leads to opportunities to learn. Loud bellows, while attention getting, don’t seem to lead to change and understanding. #

So I’m doing a gut check right now, weighing my words extra carefully, in an attempt to make sure that I’m acting on the issues, and my principles, and not on the personalities. I’m also making sure that I’m being kind and thoughtful with my words. That’s important. #

But being kind doesn’t mean agreeing with bad practice, or with poor thinking, or going along with whatever the other person is saying. Doing right by each other means holding each other accountable for what we say and what we do. If I’m not making sense, I sure hope there somebody listening who’s going to tell me, in a kind and compassionate way, that I’m mistaken.⁴ #

And I’m going to try to do that as I keep moving forward. It’s the right thing to do. #

Some of my actions lately weren’t, perhaps. And I apologize for those. #

What’s vital is that you have people in your professional and personal circles who can help you to think through these things, or to help you remember to think through them when you need to. Michelle has been kindly reminding me of my responsibilities with language and tone and kindness this week, and I’m appreciative. She and I both believe that good questions are always better than sharp barbs.⁵ #

How do you work to make sure that you stay kind, but avoid a case of the “yeah, yeahs” whenever disagreement arises? Who’s helping you to be thoughtful in word and deed while keeping you kind? #

It’s tricky business, but it’s worth walking in the space between the curmudgeons and the yeah, yeahs. #

1. I’m thinking Twitter isn’t so handy for thoughtful critique sometimes.
2. The amazingness of everything really bugs me. Overusing praise is a problem – both in classrooms and in collegial spaces. Dialogue isn’t terribly useful if it’s not actually a give and take, but actually just a give. More on that in a minute.
3. If you want to read the tweets, they’re available here (as a picture) or here (with links – do a search for @web20classroom to sort).
4. And I sure hope that you’ll understand if I ask you for clarification, or tell you that I just don’t understand you or your point. It’s not rude. Honest.
5. I forgot for a bit, though, maybe.

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Direct Link to Audio #

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