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See you on the other side!

Cocoons, Kindness, and Liminal Space

I have been thinking a lot about liminality.  I guess it comes with my age and maybe this past school year. Or COVID or my children getting ready to graduate or move to high school.  Perhaps my own education or any of the thousand things that randomly run through my mind, but it keeps coming back. 

Liminality.  

Change. The process of change. 

When a thing changes from one thing into another, that time when it is no longer the former but not yet the latter, that is liminality. 

Writers and researchers talk often about liminal spaces. Those places that are safe for this fragile mid-metamorphosis state.  The not-yet-butterfly no-longer-caterpillar, safe in its cocoon. Without the cocoon, it would die.  That protective place allows vulnerability and protects the change.  

It is a liminal space. 

As educators, we strive for schools to be liminal spaces, where students have the freedom to think and change, to grow and become. Always the becoming. 

And change is messy. It does not happen without failure, grief, heartache, and loss.  Change can be sought or not. It can be intentional or not. 

But it almost always is filled with error. 

Mistakes.  

Trial and error is nothing without the error. 

So, in reality, liminal spaces are privileges.  Who gets to grow and change, to be protected in that vulnerable place?

Who gets to screw up and get a second chance? Or a third? Or fourth?

Who gets to try something with potential for great success, experience great failure and still get the opportunity to try again? 

Certainly the wealthy, who are given countless opportunities to redefine themselves.  And often the very well connected.  A powerful ally can bring protection in times of mistake or failure.

Rarely is it so for those in trauma.

Or poverty.

Which students are allowed to make foolish choices and still be allowed a do-over?  Rarely the ones who are tough. Or difficult. Or unseen.

Not the porcupines, all bristle and defense, all protection but little welcome.  

The thing is, it isn't just students. Adults need liminal spaces too.  Adults experience liminality. We think of childhood and certainly adolescence as a place defined by change, necessarily inclusive of it. But isn't adulthood also? 

When one goes from being not a parent to a parent,  sure, that may occur in a moment, but the process, the evolution, it can take time.  And especially for women, if it takes too much time, they are denied the comfort of liminality and face guilt and shame and judgment. Questions about their maternal instinct and womanliness.   

Why? Why do we expect change to be instantaneous?  Why is liminality a luxury?

I think of this around teaching.  A lot. Rarely are teachers amazing from the start. When I think back to my first one or two years of teaching (and probably third, as well) some of the boneheaded things I did! But when someone is new and tired or frustrated or desperate, excellent decision-making rarely rules. It takes time to develop teacher instincts and to weed out the bad ideas from the good. 

But in a world of standardized tests and evaluation rubrics, there isn't a lot of room for grace.  

Growth is expected, and failure is given good lip service but rarely is there room for it.  And in education today, there is certainly no time for it.  

Teachers can't become good teachers without liminal spaces.  

When I tell people this, especially people not in education, this seems obvious. 

Why, then, is it so hard to allow inside the world of education?

I would hypothesize that, at least in part, it comes from the Teacher Hunger Games mentality created by No Child Left Behind and nurtured through the diligent care of the Gates Foundation and watered with plenty of Pearson administered tests. (But we all know how I feel about that.)

My concern is that it seems like this has taken a new, more sinister phase.  Not just in education but in, well, everything. 

The world is so quick to accuse. So quick to comment. Everyone has a biting 144 character comment, often shielded by distance or anonymity. We can't seem to find grace for anyone, and certainly not mercy. 

But ripping open a chrysalis for a biting comment on the lack of progress doesn't speed things along. It leads to death. 

George Saunders, an author I deeply respect, often talks about the need for love and kindness in everything we do (while still recognizing the difficulty in that).  (If you have some time, this video of his 2013 Syracuse commencement address is priceless). 

In a recent interview with Ezra Klein, Saunders talked about a comment of his: “Kindness is the only non-delusional response to the human condition.” They talked about how to be kind, why it took practice, and what Saunders did to specifically encourage this in his life.  

What an idea! To be intentional about kindness. To practice it and work at it, seeing it as a skill that we learn and nurture it. 

In a different interview, Saunders said, "My belief is that, actually, this whole mess down here on earth only holds together via small acts of decency and kindness. We tend to overlook or minimize the effect of the small things, but that is really what a culture is – that collection of thousands of small, habitual, decent moves that collectively make life somewhat predictable and 'normal.'"

He goes on to say, "if a kid sees someone behaving lovingly towards someone they love, that gets into their bodies and they will emulate that behavior without even knowing they are doing it".

Which brings me back to liminal spaces. 

I wonder if the reason education is so cut-throat right now is that we are not giving the time and space to really develop those habits of mind, to become kinder and more loving. 

Schools are so focused on the data from the test (instead of trusting the data from the skilled educator), they fail to allow room for those choices each day that allow us to be kinder and show kindness to others and ourselves. 

I think that in the school ecosystem, kindness is both a cause and a result.  It is cyclical.  The thing that makes the liminal space is the kindness, while, at the same time, the process within that space is (or, more accurately, could be) becoming more kind. 

With our students. 

With ourselves.

With our colleagues. 

And all of that kindness provides a space to grow and think, to change and become, again, always the becoming. In other ways and around other ideas. Beyond kindness.  But empowered by it, protected by it. 

As I reflect on the past year, I can say, an important aspect for me was a distinct lack of kindness. Not from everyone. But from enough people, groups, situations. Enough to create a sense of unease. Danger. That sense that one can never relax because some peril lurked.  

And that sense of danger is anathema to liminality.

One is not free to grow and change, to become if there is always a threat, however vague or undefined. 

Looking back, reflecting now that there is a bit of distance between the year and me, I can see that, in large part, the danger I felt was not from COVID but a lack of kindness. 

My district masked from the beginning and followed quarantine rules. We allowed vulnerable staff members and students to work and learn remotely. We used a zillion gallons of hand sanitizer and socially distanced and cleaned cleaned cleaned. On the surface, we did all of the things right, and because of that, we had virtually no school-to-school transmissions. 

But the unkindness. You felt it.  Lurking.  Waiting. It was almost tangible. It created fear and destroyed trust. It led to isolation then dug moats around it.

Unkindness in general is horrible. In a school, it is a poison.  Not just for students (but definitely for them). For the staff. The families. The communities. 

And when it is there, it is almost as if you can see it, snaking out and around, noxious tendrils lurking, waiting, and suffocating those who try even to breathe.

Liminality in unkindness? Forget it. 

So, for the coming year, I am again going to focus my efforts on kindness. Compassion. Mercy. 

Those are the strands that build the protective space where we can grow and change.  

My students need it. 

My colleagues need it. 

I need it. 

In Saunders's speech (Seriously, it is amazing. Watch it.), he says to "err in the direction of kindness". In my first year in my current district, I had that written on the podium at the front of the room. At one point, a student said she didn't know what it meant. So, in the way that is beautifully agonizing for teachers, I got to stumble my way through trying to explain something I deeply understood but struggled to explain. 

It was not amazing. 

Since then, I have thought about it a lot. How to explain that, what it means, how it looks to err in the direction of kindness. 

If I could go back, I would tell that student that every day we make choices--a few, many, some enormous, some inconsequential--that we make having no idea what we are doing. We make our best guess and do what we think is probably correct. That isn't unique to schooling, and it doesn't end at graduation. 

Each of those situations is a crossroads of sorts.  Of two roads or three or ten.  But we have to choose a path, then go. 

It is in our nature to choose the one that looks best for us. The outcome that works well with my life and my needs and my goals.  

But maybe the better way is to choose the one that is kind. Since we don;'t know and are making a best guess anyway, maybe we should make the choice that looks the best for others. That meets the needs of others. The path that is most likely to make the path not easier but better for others. 

That is kindness. 

And it is hard.  Especially when the others are ones we don't know. Or don't like. Who wants to take a risk that will likely or predominantly help others?  

But if we do this, then maybe others see it and make similar choices, ones shrouded in kindness that make the way easier or more illuminated or better for us, when we are the others, when we are those who are unknown or unliked. 

That place where things are better, smoother, safer, with a path on which someone has cut away the branches and left a light in the distance even though they may not how it?  

That is a liminal space.  

And we build that by erring in the direction of kindness. 

Utter Nonsense

OK, I have to get this off my chest.  (And apologies in advance for being all over the place, but this is more of a wound-lancing than a scholarly exploration.)

One can't listen to the news or scroll through a news feed without hearing someone clutching their pearls about Critical Race Theory (CRT) and won't someone please think of the children. 

All of the nonsense swirling around about CRT and using it to indoctrinate young children.  

I would guess that 90% of the people pontificating about the dangers of CRT don't actually understand it.  

In full disclosure, I am not an expert but have studied and used it in my doctoral work.  And that's the thing.  It is something that resides in academia.  

High schools are not using CRT.  

Elementaries certainly aren't.  

But even if they were, that isn't a problem, and here is why.

People talk about banning CRT.  Punishing those who teach it. 

But CRT isn't a thing. It isn't a topic so much as it is a lens. A filter.

We have all seen those commercials where they talk about unseen skin damage done by the sun.  

Picture 1 looks normal.  

Then, picture 2 has a filter added that shows cellular damage and, sure enough! Unseen skin damage. Use sunblock! Lesson learned, thanks to an added filter/lens.

The damage was there in picture 1, you just could not see it. 

Not until you looked through the filter.  

That filter didn't change reality. It just revealed parts that were already there.  And a different filter would reveal different things. 

So, in history or literature or the arts, we examine things through filters, not for the eye but for the mind. 

They are theoretical filters.

Step 1: Read this article.  

Step 2: Understand it with what you know. 

Step 3: Then think about it using some different ideas or ways of understanding and new pieces are revealed.  

Step 4: New knowledge! A Victory!

The theory is the filter for the brain. 

For me, the easiest example is Frankenstein.   

Frankenstein is a horror story.  Smart crazy scientists steals a dead body, brings it back to life, can't control it, then tries to destroy it.  Right?

But, what is it about?

It is about a crazy scientist who reanimates a body then realizes that was a bad idea. 

It is also about all the decisions that go into that. Who would think doing such a thing is a good idea? 

Well, that brings up issues of medical ethics. So you could pretty easily say that Frankenstein, without any stretch at all, has to do with whether it is a good idea to reanimate the dead.  Should humans have that power?  And who is checking the power of scientists?

Right?  That is pretty obviously a point. 

Now, every good teacher talks about the author and some background. 

Frankenstein was written by a woman. Not just any woman, Mary Shelley. Wife to a famous poet (Percy Bysshe Shelley) who was part of a group of poets and thinkers including George Gordon, Lord Byron. 

The story that is at the center of Frankenstein was famously the product of a bet. A challenge. Mary, Percy, Lord Byron, and others were at a cabin and decided upon a contest to come up with the best story. That night, Mary saw a pile of old clothes that in the shadows looked like a person. A creepy night combined with her creative mind came up with a scary tale.  That tale was her contribution to the story-telling challenge and eventually grew into Frankenstein.  

A smart, creative person in the presence of other smart, creative people trying to win a challenge, inspired by a racing mind on a spooky night.  We have all come up with bizarre, weird possible justifications for unusual noises at night, and that makes the entire origin story of Frankenstein that much more real, accessible, believable. 

So, that's Frankenstein. Right?

Yes, but what if there is more?

Let's look not just with our normal mind but add a lens. 

We are going to add the lens of Feminism. 

At the time of Frankenstein, Feminism as a philosophy was in its infancy. At its most basic, it focused on issues of equality, women's right to education, justice for women. Things like the ability to vote, own property, not be considered the property of a man (father then eventually husband). That sort of thing.  

We start with the background.  Why? Because part of using a theoretical lens means that background is important. It might give clues to who the writer was or what they were thinking or trying to say. 

Mary Shelley was a woman. But not just any woman. A smart woman. And a smart woman at a time when women were not educated (many people didn't even believe they could be educated). 

But she was also the daughter of William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft. 

William Godwin was a thinker. A writer. A philosopher. He wrote about issues of justice, politics, and personal life.  He got into trouble for being critical of the institution of marriage.  In fact, he and Mary W. were married, but they didn't live together. They lived next door to each other and maintained their independence. 

While Godwin is interesting, holy cow! Mary Wollstonecraft is a force to reckon with. She is one of the first published feminist writers. Her Vindication of the Rights of Woman is a masterpiece. It was very clear about the need for women's rights and was critical of legal impediments to women's freedom. It criticized the way women were infantilized and forced into servitude by a system that refused to educate them. Her writing is a seminal work that has influenced feminist thinkers for hundreds of years. 

Those two people, Godwin and Wollstonecraft, were Mary Shelley's parents.  

It is not hard at all to imagine that she was influenced by their ideas. 

So it is reasonable to say that it is fair (and even necessary) to look at Frankenstein through a feminist lens. 

Let's do that. 

Is it possible Mary Shelley was influenced by the philosophical ideas of her mother?  

Remember that bit about whether Victor Frankenstein (or anyone, for that matter) should have the kind of power necessary to bring back the dead?  Mary Wollstonecraft wrote in Vindication, "It is impossible for any man, when the most favorable circumstances concur, to acquire sufficient knowledge and strength of mind to discharge the duties of a king, entrusted with uncontrolled power".

Then there is the monster. 

The monster doesn't ask to be created, but he is.  He isn't even given a name. He has no property and is considered the property of Victor. He is dependent on Victor and kept that way. When he starts to have ideas or not obey, it is seen, not as growth, but a problem. 

Wollstonecraft writes, "Women are not allowed to have sufficient strength of mind to acquire what really deserves the name of virtue....Women are told from their infancy, and taught by the example of their mothers, that a little knowledge of human weakness, justly termed cunning, softness of temper, OUTWARD obedience, and a scrupulous attention to a puerile kind of propriety, will obtain for them the protection of man; and should they be beautiful, every thing else is needless, for at least twenty years of their lives."

The Monster is thought to be too stupid to learn things, but that proves incorrect. He continues to learn, and as his intellect grows, Victor is afraid of him. The monster is kept isolated. His needs are not met. He is treated as, well, a monster. 

Wollstonecraft writes, "Contending for the rights of women, my main argument is built on this simple principle, that if she be not prepared by education to become the companion of man, she will stop the progress of knowledge, for truth must be common to all, or it will be inefficacious with respect to its influence on general practice. And how can woman be expected to co-operate, unless she know why she ought to be virtuous?...If children are to be educated to understand...the love of mankind, from which an orderly train of virtues spring, can only be produced by considering the moral and civil interest of mankind; but the education and situation of woman, at present, shuts her out from such investigations."

The monster flees, but Victor chases him down to destroy him. We can't have the monster being independent, can we? 

Again, Wollstonecraft wites, "Men, indeed, appear to me to act in a very unphilosophical manner, when they try to secure the good conduct of women by attempting to keep them always in a state of childhood."

The monster eventually becomes violent when Victor ignores him and refuses to meet his needs. He asks for a companion. Someone to love. Victor disregards the monster's need for love and fulfillment. The monster wants to learn and grow and love. But Victor chooses to reject him, keeping him alone and ignorant until forced to do otherwise. 

From Vindication, "Many are the causes that, in the present corrupt state of society, contribute to enslave women by cramping their understandings and sharpening their senses...To do every thing in an orderly manner, is a most important precept, which women, who, generally speaking, receive only a disorderly kind of education, seldom attend to with that degree of exactness that men."

Looking at the words of Mary Wollstonecraft,  the mother of Mary Shelley who wrote Frankenstein, it doesn't take much of a leap to see connections. And those connections are sharpened with a Feminist lens, seeing these as issues of justice for women, a need for education, a need for basic rights, not because someone else (a man) allows it but because everyone should just have those same rights. 

Young Mary was influenced by the ideas of her feminist mother. 

Is the treatment of the Monster a symbol for the way women were treated in the early 1800s? 

Wollstonecraft wrote, "Men, in general, seem to employ their reason to justify prejudices, which they have imbibed, they cannot trace how, rather than to root them out."  

Is it possible these very ideas influenced Mary?  Yes. 

Is it possible they made their way, either consciously or unconsciously into Frankenstein?  It is certainly possible. 

And there it is.

That's how you use a theoretical lens.  

Unless we have writings from Mary saying that yes, that is exactly what she meant, we can't know for certain.  But we can use a lens to try to guess, make educated guesses. Not to make foolish assumptions, but to be wise and use what is verifiable (Mary's mother's ideas and influence) to determine what might be (that The Monster is symbolic of women, his treatment a stand-in for theirs.) 

We use a theoretical lens to sharpen our understanding of what we already know so that we see causes, connections, and significances.  We don't want to miss things just because we were not looking properly.

Why then in the world would anyone want anyone to not use a lens? 

All of this, all of it, shows the utter nonsense of banning the use of Critical Race Theory in K-12 schools. (Banning its use in college is entirely different and an absolute attack on intellectual freedom)

CRT has five basic ideas:

1. Racism is ordinary and not aberrational (It is the rule, not the exception)
2. Interest convergence (People in power (usually white) only change things when it benefits them, not to alleviate the harm to others)
3. Social construction of race (Race is social. Not genetic. Society decides what race is, not DNA)
4. Storytelling and counter-storytelling (People need to tell their stories. And when false stories have been told, they need to be opposed. The stories of those who experience racism and have suffered because of it need to be elevated because they have, for so long, been silenced.)
5. Whites have actually been recipients of civil rights legislation (For how long were only whites allowed to vote? Own property? Have a bank account? Go to college?  All of the laws that supported these whites-only policies were "civil rights legislation" for white people).  

OK, so, first, which one of those is wrong?  Which is untrue?  Which is there no evidence to support? 

(insert awkward silence)

Now, to be clear, CRT is a lens.

Just this past week was Loving Day.  Celebration of the Loving SCotUS decision that legalized interracial marriage. June 12, 1967. (Just 7 years before I was born) 

Which is fascinating, from a historical point of view. 

And it is interesting from a legal perspective. 

And in a class on politics, government, or sociology, it has different elements of focus and interest.  

What about looking at it through a CRT lens?

1. At one point, everywhere in America, Blacks and whites could not marry each other. That is a verifiable fact.    
2. Those laws changed when it began to benefit white people. The Loving case was brought to the attention of Attorney General Robert Kennedy (who had designs on the presidency and cultivated an image as someone who supported civil rights).
3. Why couldn't the Lovings marry?  Because one was Black? Who is white? Who is Black?  Who is Black enough to not be able to marry a white person? Those decisions are decided not by a blood test or DNA but by society.  
4. Common stories said whites should not marry Blacks because Blacks were lesser, not human, going to pollute the gene pool, on and on with offensive tales.  For hundreds of years, that was the story. So now, we need to elevate the truth and reject that false narrative. 
5. Laws protected white-with-white marriages in order to consolidate power for whites to pass o to their children. White people, whether they knenw it or not, whether they tried to or not absolutely benefited from these laws. 

OK, so an extremely basic CRT look provides a more well-rounded understanding of why the Loving decision was even needed.  And why it was so important. 

It helps us better understand a thing we already knew. 

That is a lens. 

That is a way of sharpening our understanding of truth. 

Why, I ask, would anyone oppose such a thing or make it sound dangerous or irresponsible?

I mean, is there any possible reason other than a fear of truth? 

There are truths, ugly truths that might make people look bad, and what possible reason can there be other than keeping those hidden? 

How can anyone justify hiding the truth? 

 

 

The Lie of Learning Loss

I know that the news and policy-makers continually talk about "learning loss" as being the concept that seems to be dominating the 20-21 school year (and the second half of the 19-20 year).

And I really wish they would stop.  

Not just because it is condescending and hypercritical, but because it is wrong. Entirely wrong. Yet nobody who has air time seems to care about that. 

Education in America has a tremendous problem with deficit framing. The focus falls on what students lack or how they are behind or what they are missing rather than what they have or skills they use.  

A great example is ELLs (English language learners).  

Rather than focusing on their ability to move within multiple languages (something the average English-as-a-first-language American does not have), talk centers on how their English skills are behind or what they can't do or understand.  

This deficit-centered thought works against helping students build that sense of confidence and self-efficacy that encourages growth and success. It also minimizes, especially for marginalized students, those aspects of their lives that are skills, knowledge, and habits but are outside what the academic world has traditionally valued.  

We see this a lot in the world of Young Adult literature. The people who are writing the best, most well-received, most desired books for young people right now are those who, when they were in school, were told that their lived experiences and background knowledge were not important or relevant. So those books about very real issues (struggles at home or living in a multicultural family or being someone who must babysit siblings) come from writers who know those experiences as their own, value them, and write about them. And students, in turn, relate to them. Because those out-of-school literacies are valuable and relevant, even if they are not strictly academic.   

Then we get to this bananas idea of "learning loss".  

And I specifically want to push back against that concept and suggest we frame it instead as "learning impact."  

Our students haven't experienced learning loss.  

That would mean they know less now than they did when the pandemic began, and even for the most disengaged student, that is just not true. 

What has occurred is a change in learning.  

A change in what is learned and a change in the timeline.  

Yes, we are not as far along as we typically would be. But that isn't a loss. That is not being as far along. 

And what have the kids learned? Holy cow! The amazing things they have learned about technology and communication. 

In my district, virtually every student in grades 1-12 can edit a PDF.  Most adults can barely open a PDF much less annotate one. 

But my kids can. 

And will the IAR or SAT or ACT or MAP assess that? 

No, it won't. 

Those kids have learned about sending, checking, and receiving emails (something many adults still haven't mastered), how to adjust to fluctuating schedules.  

They have learned to track important events on the news (positivity rates, timelines for reopening, why there can't be spectators at sports.) 

They have learned how to find information on important issues and how to talk about big ideas.  

At times they have learned how not to fall prey to disinformation and how to respond when someone else has.  

And all of this is on top of content area material. 

And during a pandemic when the students are also dealing with and coping with their own trauma. 

Far from a loss!  

I am not saying this year has been ideal, not by any measure.  But I do push back against framing that learning, all of that diverse new knowledge as a loss.  

A specific step that anyone who cares about this can take, one I am challenging myself to take, is to reject the deficit mindset and terminology ("learning loss") and pivot to a competency-based mindset--including using the term "learning impact"-- and focusing on the truth that learning has happened.  

At a different pace, and in a different way, certainly. But it has happened. 

So the real questions are how can we continue the learning and continue the timeline, preparing for the next steps of learning that students will take, building on the competencies they have and the new ones they have gained. 

 

Talking Points

There is an episode of The West Wing late in season 5 called "Talking Points" where Josh Lymon is feeling victorious over his negotiating a difficult trade deal. Lots of people could have negotiated it, but he was chosen. Leo (chief of staff) talks about how fierce he was! The President congratulates him!  Everyone says what a great job and what hard work! He did what could not have been done!

Before the deal is even signed, word is leaked that immediately upon signing, a large telecom company is going to cut 17,000 jobs and send them to Asia (something that could only be facilitated because of the trade deal). Josh is horrified that this is happening because of his work and meets with the CEO, asking him to stop or at least delay it because of the horrible effects on the lives of the 17,000 workers.  

The CEO says that it isn't 17,000. It is millions over 10 years. This is just the start. 

Josh, an ally of unions and someone who made a promise to protect union jobs, is aghast. 

Then the CEO tells him that the White House already knew about this. Everyone knew. Except him. 

Angry, Josh confronts Leo, who more or less says you can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs. 

Furious and hurt because of the role he was tricked into playing, Josh confronts the President who is thoughtful and saddened but essentially says that there is nothing they could do. Josh accuses him of breaking his promise to protect the union workers and the President agrees.

Later Josh is talking to Donna (his assistant) and angrily--angry at himself, at  Leo, at the President--says "What I did wrong wasn't breaking my word. It was making a promise I couldn't keep in the first place."

As I watched the episode recently, I realized how much that entire situation feels so much like education in general. 

Teachers, most days, are Josh Lymon in this episode.  We are given high-fives, told what hard work we do, how everyone appreciates it and our dedication is amazing, while all of the decisions that really matter are being made behind the scenes. We don't really have that much power, but the high-fives keep us mollified. 

We are in a pandemic, one year out, and are planning for nationwide high-stakes standardized testing. We are told, "It's fine! The tests don't matter anyway! We just need some data! No, not your classroom data, that doesn't count or isn't good enough! We need this other data that is actually meaningless! But it's fine! You can do them now or even over the summer! It's fine!"  

Smile and high-five while setting fire to a billion dollars for nothing. To add stress to teachers and students for data that is useless in any given year but useless and invalid this year. 

But we gather it anyway.  Because why? Who knows? 

Someone who has already made the deal, with a wink and a nod behind the scenes, and just hasn't leaked word yet. 

 It is the end of the pandemic school year, and we are giving final exams. "How else will kids know we are serious?"  Smile and high-five! Only dedicated teachers could bring such rigor! All while inflicting an unfair assessment on an uneven playing field for a group of students who have had unequal learning experiences. Sure, but you get to fly to Brussels! (in this case, a candy bar in the mailbox!)

Most people in education went into the field out of a genuine desire to help, to educate, to improve lives. It was likely not the entire reason, but it was at least part of the equation.  Who in the world would say, "I am going to work hard for 4 years, take this job, and spend the rest of my life trying to ruin lives through low expectations and poor-quality worksheets!"? 

And it is really really easy to spot the villains when you have a bungling one-percenter like Betsy DeVos at the helm. 

It is much harder to realize that, generally, there are few clear-cut villains, other than the system.  

It is really easy to see education as a binary:

There are good teachers and bad teachers.

There are hard-working teachers and lazy teachers.

There are dynamic teachers and boring teachers.

In reality, any educator can be dynamic in the morning and a snooze-fest in the afternoon. One week we can be on fire and changing the world when the next day being bogged down in paperwork and committees sends us to look up the details of early retirement. 

And at any given moment of any day, each one of us is Josh Lymon, having made a promise we cannot keep.  

We have promised we would bring world-class education to each and every student, and it will be the ticket that brings them out of inequality, the path to a better life! And we make that promise because we believe it. We deeply, fundamentally believe it.

Josh looked the union members in the eye and promised to save their jobs. Not because he wanted their votes but because he wanted to save their jobs. 

But all of the power players in Josh's circle had already made decisions, had discussions, and arranged plans--without his knowledge--that tied his hands. He just didn't know. 

And every teacher you have ever known has had to commit to some aspect of education they deeply despise or outright object to but have absolutely no control over because the power players in their sphere have already had the conversations, made the decisions, and printed the guidebook. They just didn't say anything. 

Sometimes teachers push back.  And they are often the ones ground in the gears of the system. Occasionally they are heralded as visionaries or rock stars.  Every educator who has watched Stand and Deliver or Dead Poet's Society knows deep in their bones that this is not how the system works.  

And it is March.  

February and March are the cold, gray suck vortex of education when every teacher either counts the years left until retirement could theoretically kick in or does incognito Google searches for "non-teaching jobs that can be done with a degree in English education".  That is just reality. February and March are hard in a normal year.

 But this year, they feel like a giant broken promise. One made with absolute conviction and the best of intentions without knowing that those in power had already had the discussions, made the deals, and shook hands.  

They just haven't told anyone yet. 

Masks: Wearing, Growing, Fitting

Years ago, in that way that could mean last week or 1997, I read "Shooting an Elephant" by George Orwell. (Yes, that George Orwell.)  

In the tale, a British man is a police officer stationed in Burma/Myanmar. He knows that he is hated by the people--the face of the colonizer--and it is clear this bothers him.  A situation arises where he has power, the same power he has always had, but now saturated not only with the responsibility to those around him but also their expectation of his behavior.

He needs to make a terrible choice, struggling with who he is: the man who does the right thing or the man who is pressured into something he knows is wrong but might bring him slightly less hatred.  

While examining his own thoughts, the man says, "He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it."

Years ago--both yesterday and 1982--this line struck me.  The ways we wear masks, change who we are depending on the audience, the situation, the time. 

Then COVID hit and it took on all new meaning. 

The one-year mark is fast approaching, and it is humbling to see how the science world has mobilized in the face of great suffering and criticism to accomplish astonishing feats. 

And it is hard, so very hard, to look at humanity and see that so many care so little for others. 

How little do we value the elderly? 

How little do we care for the marginalized?

How little do we care for the poor?

And then the schools. 

The world seems only to care for teachers went they are martyrs and sacrifices. Not Arthur Dimmesdale with his bloody scourge kept closeted away; no, nothing less than a public flailing will do. 

But those teachers! If only the world could see what they have been able to accomplish.  What they have tried, what they have learned, what they have created. And all in the midst of their own grief, their own struggle. 

I wonder if we will ever look back and collectively grasp just how much educators tried, failed, and tried again during this time? 

It has been hard to see how harsh we all are with each other.  

It is hard to see how little grace we are willing to distribute. 

This morning, getting out of my car, I put my mask on.  Four days ago, I got my second vaccination. The flooding relief was real.  The fear that I could still transmit to the as-yet-unvaccinated is just as real. 

So on goes the mask. 

I hope that this mask, this real, tangible thing, is a reminder of that metaphorical mask we always wear.  I wish that it worked the same way. 

We wear a mask, and our face grows to fit it. 

We grow to care more. Be more compassionate. Have more concern. Give more grace. 

We listen to science more and hear those who are struggling. 

I can't change what anyone else does or how they react, but I hope that this terrible time, this time that now finally seems to at least be finite, immeasurable but still finite, will have softened my heart and strengthened my compassion.  

Long after this mask is put away, I will have to live with the choices I have made, the ways I have treated people, those unkindnesses I have allowed to creep into my grieving heart. 

Long after this mask is put away, I will still be the person I was while I wore it. 

This mask says that I care about those around me. That I listen to science and trust experts. That my community is important to me. 

Years from now, I hope my face will have grown to fit this mask.

Books on a Shelf

I spend most of my life with books on shelves.  I am surrounded by them at work and think about them all the time. 

How to organize, how to shift books and shelves to make them more accessible, whether to group all of the Star Wars books together or by the author (together). 

A couple of weeks ago, a dear friend was talking about getting built-in bookshelves made and showed me a photo of her assortment of shelves that would be cleared out through the projects. There were books everywhere. Piled, stacked, nested. 

Clearly adored. 

The thing that may surprise people is that I do not have many books of my own in my home. 

I used to. I had a lot, and when we moved they were a huge pain.  But I loved them, the feel the look, the friendship. 

Once I became a librarian, perhaps it is a natural outgrowth of the process, I really stopped buying many physical books. Why would I when I work in a library and can order virtually any book I choose? 

My children know that if there is a book they want, I will order it. 

If it is beloved, I will buy the digital version so they can have it on a Kindle (I know, I know. But they are living in a different time). 

For my personal independent reading, honestly, the only books I purchase are audiobooks that I believe I will listen to again or my husband or children will listen to (being worthy of a precious Audible credit is the highest compliment).

In spite of this very deliberate, very conscious decision, I do feel envy when I see someone with amazing shelves filled with books.  I really do in a visceral way love books. 

So, this morning, I was shelving a few of the books I do have (alpha by author). And I sat for a moment, thinking about the books. 

I am in the 4th year of a doctoral program, taking my last semester of classes before my comps and (if all goes well) starting my dissertation. When this started, I never ever thought I would get to this point. It was so far away. 

But with that first class, I purchased the books.  New if possible. Used-Like New if they were prohibitively expensive.  (Don't get me started on the cost of academic books). With a doctoral program, these weren't textbooks, per see, but books dedicated to aspects of literacy, research in curriculum, texts on reading, essays on theory. 

Each semester, I bought the books and set them on a shelf.  I was so proud each time I added a book. It was like watching a child grow.  But it was my knowledge that was growing. Or, truly, my awareness of my lack of knowledge.  

As the process continued, I started buying books that were of interest to my area of focus or by an author I felt especially challenged by.  

This morning, I realized I had the 6th edition of the APA handbook, plucked it off the shelf, and tossed it in the recycle pile.  It didn't bother me in the least. (I have a really great spiral-bound version of the 7th edition, and the 6th edition, let's face it was a disaster, filled with errors and lacking a lot of useful information). That space was valuable.

When people say, "Oh, you must own so many books!", I always feel a twinge of guilt that I really don't.  I give the librarian elevator pitch about using your local library. But if I am honest, really honest, I am both proud of my little shelf of academic books and humbled by them.  There are so many things I don't know, so many things I want to learn, so many ideas I have never explored. 

I think of the Library of Congress as a kind of holy place. A repository of knowledge, one of the greatest in the world. But even it has holes and gaps, unintentional, as yet undiscovered, or intentional, created by sinister histories of silencing and oppression. 

Maybe that is why my shelf is so humbling to me. It is a physical manifestation of what I know, what I have read, but it also shows in stark clarity that there is always so much more to know. 

Neither a Mover nor a Shaker

Warning: This is going to sound like a pouting/pity party but it isn't. It is the stuff on my heart at the moment, and that is what this space has always been for.  

This time of year can be rough.  It can be amazing with graduations and celebrations and pools and parties, but it can also be rough.  In May of this year (though for years it was always March. May is a new timeline.) Library Journal (LJ)  releases a host of awards.  It honors libraries, administrators, and librarians. Things like Librarian of the Year, Library of the Year, Para of the Year.  

There is an award category called the Movers and Shakers.  These always celebrate some of the most amazing people in the library community. "Innovators", "emerging leaders", and those who are "providing inspiration and model programs for others."

There are categories like Change Agents, Digital Developers, Educators, Innovators, Advocates, and Community Builders.

These are legitimately amazing people.  They are giants on social media and people who are making a huge impact in their community, region, or even nation.  I celebrate them and their work. It is always inspirational to read through the list and all they have accomplished. 

And it is humbling  

And sometimes it really stings.  

There is absolutely zero chance I will ever be on LJ's Movers and Shakers list.  

It is never going to happen.  
That awareness hurts.

It isn't supposed to.  I know that LJ is celebrating them and bringing attention to their powerful work.  But the knowledge that my work is just not even in the same league can make it seem.....less. 

Then a few weeks later, graduation happens, and seniors recognize those who had an impact on their life, their academic career, their education.  When I was in the classroom, I got the occasional shout out. 

Now?  I can't even imagine that I am even for a moment considered.  

Which kind of stings.  

And it shouldn't.  

I am not in a position like a classroom teacher. My work is almost entirely behind the scenes.  

I read in classrooms K-5, but once middle school hits, students rarely know about the things my work involves.  

I know my work is important to the running of a school.  

I help teachers know how to use tech. 
I help the tech work. 
I make sure the library is filled with a current, diverse collection that meets the needs of the students.
I hunt for resources for teachers and administrators. 
I advocate for students.
I ensure that student voice and choice are honored in the library collection. 

The library in my 6-12 campus is, essentially, an entirely different library from the one that was there when I took over 5 years ago.  That space has comfortable seating. I have implemented positive circulation policies including getting rid of fines and increasing check-out limits.  The collection is far far more representative of current student reading habits. The change in the collection is almost impossible to describe.  

Any student who checks out a book that has been purchased in the past 5 years has benefitted from the small, slow, progressive changes.  

The seniors who graduated this year have no idea what was there before. 

And I love that. 

I love that they will never be burdened by a library that was not student-centered.  I am happy that their high school memories involve a library that was welcoming, responsive, and friendly. 

But that isn't Mover.
It certainly isn't Shaker. 

But it is important.  And I know that.  I am definitely not criticizing the Movers and Shakers award.  Not even a little.  

I suppose this is a lament for a world where all of those small, necessary, daily tasks of educators --not just librarians--are not really seen.

That is just part of the education gig, though.  Planting a seed that you desperately hope will be a tree at some point in your lifetime.  

This is much more of a long game.'

Not Mover and Shaker.  
Planter, nurturer, waiter, tender, trimer, pruner, waterer, feeder, comforter. 
And hoper. (One who hopes?)

So today I will enjoy some Cherry Garcia and grumble about not being a Mover and Shaker, then tomorrow I'll get back to the work that helps my students. 

Achtung Baby?

I can see it in my mind's eye as if it happened earlier today. 

I am 17, sitting on the floor of my room.  I am holding a prized item: the cassette tape I just received from Columbia House.  

It is U2's new release, Achtung Baby.  


I had listened to The Joshua Tree until the thing darned near fell apart.  Over the summer, I had paid a $75 deposit (borrowed from my aunt) to rent from the record store a VHS tape (I know) of the live performance of Rattle and Hum, the album that followed The Joshua Tree. 

Achtung Baby was the first album U2 had released in three years.  This was the late 80s and early 90s. Waiting three years for an album felt like an eternity.  

And now I owned Achtung Baby. 

I gingerly unwrapped the plastic, and my heart skipped a beat when I noticed the liner notes contained complete lyrics listings.  

I put the cassette into the player, closed my eyes, and pressed play.  After a second or so of silence, there was a garbled screech of distortion.  I jumped, pressed stop, and opened the cassette door with dread, imagining the spaghetti of tape I would have to wind back in with a pencil.  But no.  Nothing was wrong. The tape was not being eaten.  I took it out, looked at it, flipped it over, looked carefully again, then gingerly put it back in.  I pressed play but left my finger hovering over the stop button. 

There is was again: the jarring screeches. I stopped it again, certain my cassette was mangled. Again, it was nothing.  A third time, I put it in and let it play.  Soon, the fullness of "Zoo Station", the first track on the A-side came through.   

And I listened.  

This was no Joshua Tree.  
This wasn't even Rattle and Hum.  

This was something entirely different. 

The sound. 
The instruments. 
The cacophony. 
The style.

The lyrics don't even start until a minute into the song.  

Bono's voice was muffled 

"I'm ready for the laughing gas
I'm ready
I'm ready for what's next
I'm ready to duck
I'm ready to dive
I'm ready to say
I'm glad to be alive"

This was definitely no Joshua Tree. 

And I kept listening. The entire album was so different. 

"Zoo Station" was weird and broken and jarring. 
"Mysterious Ways" was energetic and wild, filled with enthusiasm. 
I cried when I listened to "One."
"Love is Blindness" was so beautiful, I thought my heart might crack open. 

This album was wonderful. 

I have said many times that I think The Joshua Tree, for me, is one of the most nearly perfect albums. I can listen to the entire thing, skipping no songs, then do it again.  I can't say that about many albums. 

Achtung Baby comes pretty close.  

But they are so different.  

At that time (and toady), I loved Rod Stewart. (The use of "love" here is no exaggeration).  But I came to him mostly in retrospect.  I was born in 1974, three years after the release of Every Picture Tells a Story. By the time Out of Order was released in 1988, Stewart's disco phase that had caused such outright anger his fans had already passed. 

The same with Bob Dylan.  I was a loyal Dylan fan. I wrote my senior honors English portfolio entirely on Dylan, so I knew about the absolute horror of his fans when Dylan went electric.  But I only knew that in hindsight; I didn't live through any of the transitions. The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan came out 11 years before I was born; Blonde on Blonde the final album of his electric controversy was released in 1966. I was three months old when the groundbreaking Blood on the Tracks was released. 

After their genre-jarring changes, I knew that both Rod Stewart and Bob Dylan would continue to have prolific careers.  This was the early 90's.  Rod Stweart was something of an MTV darling. Just 2 years later he would release Unplugged...and Seated and sell 3 million copies, the third-best MTV Unplugged live album behind Nirvana and Eric Clapton.  

Bob Dylan had been churning out albums for almost 40 years, and Oh, Mercy had gone platinum two years earlier.  These beloved fixtures in my life would be fine. 

But U2?  

What in the world were they thinking?  
This album, this sound was so new. So different. 
Would they survive? 
Would everything be OK? 

(Spoiler alert: Of course, it would be OK.  
U2 has sold 18 million copies of Achtung Baby.)

But in my living room heart racing after fearing my cassette had been eaten only to discover that this album was nothing at all like the ones I had known and loved so much?  It was very very hard to see that bright future.   

Full disclosure: I have never liked change. Ever.  

That doesn't mean I don't like new things. I am almost always an early adopter of technology.  And I like knowing about trends. I love learning new things.

But I do not like change. Especially abrupt change.  
It makes me uncomfortable because I am deeply distressed by the unknown. Like I said, I like knowing things. 

Today, while cooking dinner and cleaning up, the normal landmarks of life-in-quarantine, in the background, I was streaming The Joshua Tree followed immediately by Achtung Baby.  But as I heard those opening seconds of the second album, I stood there startled. 

I was rattled. 

I realized how I felt: 

The past two months have felt like every single day, the soundtrack is the first 45 seconds of "Zoo Station" on a loop. Not the rest. Just the first 45 seconds.

Jumbled. 
Jarring.
Discordant.
Uncomfortable. 
Wrong somehow. 
Broken. 

But in my kitchen, the music continued.  

Soon Bono's muffled voice came through and sang about "being ready for what's next".  

Then "Zoo Station" ended, and "Even Better than the Real Thing" came on, upbeat, zigzagging, and enthusiastic.  

Then "One" started up. 

Bono's voice, now clear,

"Is it getting better

Or do you feel the same?
Will it make it easier on you now?
You got someone to blame
You say one love, one life 
It's one need in the night
One love, get to share it

Leaves you darling, if you don't care for it...
Well it's too late, tonight
To drag the past out into the light
We're one, but we're not the same
We get to carry each other

Carry each other"

But that comfort is immediately followed by "Until the End of the world," a song now for me synonymous with grief.  

In 1992, U2 performed a live version of it at the Freddie Mercury tribute concert.  Freddie Mercury, the frontman for Queen, had died just a few months earlier at the end of 1991, and the whole world was a mess. Mercury had died of pneumonia that was complicated by AIDS.  
So many people were sick.  
So many people were dying.  

I grew up in east-central Indiana, just an hour away from Ryan White, the boy who had contracted AIDS via blood transfusion and been treated horrifically by his school and community. Students, parents, and teachers had signed petitions to keep him out of school.  He was no danger to anyone. When he was allowed to return to school, kids stayed home. He was a paperboy, and people on his route canceled their subscriptions.  

He was only 14. I was 11.  

The treatment of Ryan White brought nationwide attention to the worst of people, how people behave when they are scared and uninformed. 

It highlighted that grown adults, powered by misinformation and fear, would willingly terrorize an innocent kid.  

That experience had been very very real to me. 

As someone who, even as a middle school student, followed the news, I knew about AIDS and the horrors it brought. I also knew there was no vaccine.  

But I had seen Princess Diana walk into AIDS wards, pick up babies, and cradle them in her gentle embrace.     

The science was there. HIV was a bloodborne pathogen.  There were ways to protect yourself.  Ryan White was no danger to anyone. 

But people were terrified and they terrorized him. 

Ryan White died in 1990.  He was only 18 at the time, but I was only 16.  That was too close.  To real.  

Then, just a year later, Freddie Mercury died.  

Ryan White was a kid.  Freddie Mercury was a god.  How could this happen?  Freddie Mercury was not supposed to die. 

The grief was just too much. 

Then there was the tribute concert.  The remaining members of Queen. Metallica. Def Leppard. Bob Geldof (sans Pink Floyd) Guns N' Roses. Elizabeth Taylor came out and spoke.  

The concert was broadcast live and I watched the entire thing.  

The only part I truly remember is U2.  

Bono stepped out and they performed "Until the End of the World" from Achtung Baby. 

"Haven't seen you in quite a while
I was down the hold just passing time
Last time we met was a low-lit room
We were as close together as a bride and groom
We ate the food, we drank the wine
Everybody having a good time
Except you
You were talking about the end of the world
...
In my dream, I was drowning my sorrows
But my sorrows, they learned to swim
Surrounding me, going down on me
Spilling over the brim
Waves of regret and waves of joy
I reached out for the one I tried to destroy
You, you said you'd wait
'Til the end of the world"

This was 1992. Or was it yesterday?

Sometimes it is hard to tell. 

I am protected in my home.  My kids are (mostly) doing remote learning. My husband and I both continue to work and get paid. Our home is safe. We have access to health care. And electricity. And wifi.  

But turn on the TV, and the world is a bit of a mess.  
The economic toll. 
The suffering. 
The terror.
The terrorizing. 

This Is the first 45 seconds of "Zoo Station" on a loop. 

But then I see reports that Taiwan has had no community transmission in a month. 
New Zealand is moving to phase 2. 
And those bring some much-needed hope.

Schools and education leaders are talking about how to reopen in the fall, and it is a scary jumbled mess.
How do we keep kids safe? 
How do we keep staff safe?
How do we educate in this ecosystem of activity and trauma and hope and expectation?

I don't know. 
I am not sure anyone knows. 
I want very much to believe that people are trying to figure it out. 
I really want to believe that those people in charge of "the plan" are consulting experts and listening to science.  

That is my hope, but I don't know for certain. 

So, for right now, I am stuck in those first 45 seconds of "Zoo Station."  But I really have hope that at some point, things will progress. We will go outside again. We will meet with people again. 

I have no idea when, but at some point, I will walk into a classroom full of children and, I hope, not feel fear. 

I am not afraid of them. I am afraid for them. 

I have to believe that at some point, we can step back into the rest of our lives.  

The album will keep playing. 

Which is good news.  
Achtung Baby is an album full of fear, uncertainty, and grief. 

But it is also beautiful. 

And it was new. 

It tried original sounds and evolving ideas and delicious combinations of instruments and vocals, talents of so many people brought together to try something different. 

So, I guess I need to let the album keep playing. 

Because eventually, "Zoo Station" ends, and in a little bit, you get to "One".

"We're one, but we're not the same
We get to carry each other
Carry each other"

I think that is pretty much the only way we move forward.