leave your cork-covered face at the door

I used to tell my students that we all wear masks at various points in our lives. Invariably, one of them shouts out, "Just like the Greeks!".

It's nothing more than impeccable timing; we are reading Sophocles.

"Anyone care to share an example of a time when you put on a facade?"

Dramatic pause, appropriate for the current unit of study...

"Drinking," shares that confident, ew-yeah-I'm-talkin'-'bout-drinkin'-in-school-to-a-teacher kid.

Okay, so I've set them up on this one. You've done the same thing and you know it!

"Even-though-you-know-it's-illegal-but-let's-just-speculate-on-a-hypothesis-here, do people wear masks when they drink?"

The debate that follows is often spirited and engaging not because of the topic that allows the discussion to percolate, but students begin to reflect on their own behaviors and choices. The best moment is when we find our way back to Antigone and they analyze the concept of facades; not just as props in a Greek tragedy, but also as a means to unlock a person's true inner motives and desires.

Teachers should read Antigone and talk about facades. Because I'm beginning to think that their tried-and-true teaching practices are quite possibly facades that cover-up their latent willingness to try something new.

When teachers reveal their true selves, they remove their masks. They try something new or they plan a brand-new lesson. They will exclaim, "Yeah! I'll try that! Let's see what happens!"

There's no perfect lesson. I learned that after my first period of teaching thirteen years ago and it's a reality that has only been reinforced year after year. But I believe we are, at our core, pioneers and explorers. We seek out new strategies to enhance our teaching, to engage our students, and to mold and re-shape the learning process.

And we are at our best when we remove our masks and reveal ourselves as willing risk-takers, focused on affording our students the best opportunities for learning.

This Halloween, leave the mask on the desk or by the copier, and have an exciting, empowering, and re-affirming Holiday. And you'll say to yourself, "I wish Halloween could come more than once a year."

And it will.

when the leaves plummet down

hockneyizer number one - 1995
When I returned my first set of graded papers, a kindly student, Eric, stayed after the bell. If I remember correctly, he had earned a 'B'; a pretty good understanding of Lady Macbeth's motives.

"Mr. Rodoff? Yeah, um, I want to thank you for taking the time to grade our papers. But here's the thing: You spent a lot more time on each paper than any of us did."

hockneyizer number two - 1996
I am coaching the lacrosse team at an all boys' high school. It's our first day of practice. I tell them, "If you've never played lacrosse, you'll learn rather quickly that it requires a lot of running."

"Okay," says one of the would-be midfielders, "Why aren't you running with us?"

hockneyizer number three - 1997
It's my first year at Springfield, quite possibly my second class on my first day. A student in one of the dark corners of the room raises his hand.

"So, you got tired of teaching just guys? Learned you're not gay? Is this why you want to teach at a school with girls?"

hockneyizer number four - 1998
Serving as the Faculty Manager at a basketball game, my job description is simple: make sure students don't curse or do anything inappropriate that would reflect negatively on the school.

Colin, sitting in the back of the bleachers, sees his web design teacher. Colin yells out, "Yo, you failed me, bitch. I oughta kill you!"

I remove Colin. I write him up. The next day I am in a meeting with my Principal. I ask, "How long will Colin be out on suspension?"

"Are you a Principal?" he asks. "Sometimes the fear of punishment is more effective than any punishment. Maybe you should learn that before you tell a Principal how to do his job."

hockneyizer number five - 2002
The students I am teaching are low-achieving seniors. They are respectful, but I can tell that literature is lost on them. They speak of careers in carpentry, plumbing, and electrical work.

At a meeting with the Special Ed. Coordinators, I ask about teaching life skills.

"It's not our job," says one of the Special Ed. Coordinators, "to teach them how to do their laundry. Is that what you think you or any of us are here to do?"

And that ends the meeting.

hockneyizer number six - 2003
One month before I leave for Japan on my Fulbright Memorial Scholarship and I am well-beyond excited. I begin preparing my students for my trip, sharing with them some of the beautiful elements of Japanese culture.

Two students ask questions, rapid fire:
"So you'll be the tallest one over there, right Mr. Rodoff?"
"How does everyone in Japan walk or drive when they always have their eyes closed?"

hockneyizer number seven - 2006
A student passes me in the hallway between A and B block. She asks, "Is it true that I won't have you for English next semester? You're going to work with teacher instead? I was looking forward to having you. I've really been looking forward to your class. I even read the prerequisite reading. And I've never done that."

So, Taylor, would you believe me if I told you that all of these snapshots are the reasons why I think the good ones stick around?

see that door over there?

Mark wants to go to the supermarket and we are a family in need of milk, so off we go. The walk from the car to the entrance is always full of excitement for Mark. I can sense his anticipation: The race-car shopping cart. The embedded Manhattan Bagel. The mountain of grapes. Just three of the wow! can't wait! supermarket moments.

When we finally coordinated our assault upon the Superfresh this evening, the sun had already set. As we began walking from the car to the door, Mark noticed a man enter the store, and then witnessed the sliding doors immediately shut.

"Oh, maaan," moaned Mark, "It's closed."

But then Mark witnessed a miracle. As we stepped up to the entrance, the sliding doors re-opened, welcoming Mark into the store. Elation ensued.

"Look, Daddy, they opened for me!"

And my wife and I let him have this moment. We allowed him to bask in the idea that this once shut door opened for him. We admired his sudden sense of self-confidence; the belief that opportunity existed where moments earlier he had felt rejected and left-out.

Mark sat in the race car shopping cart. He munched on a bagel. He kept the bag of grapes by his side until checkout. And I walked up and down every aisle wondering why teachers tend to see only closed doors; why they lose their sense of optimism and opportunity.

If they could only see what is on the other side of the glass. If only they would walk up to the door, press their hands upon the glass and peer inside, they might see something so enticing, so meaningful, that they might step back and jump up and down on the mat, willing the door to open.

I've seen teachers do just that. They'll get a glimpse of something on the other side and they'll bang their fists, they'll jump up and down, and if they need to, they'll even break in.

And it doesn't matter what's on the other side of that door. It's not about finding a wiki or a podcast or a blog. It's about finding a new, improved, or enhanced way to do something better. For themselves and for their students.

That door's not closed. It's waiting. Walk up to it. If it doesn't open automatically, open it. I've seen too many teachers turn around from a door that holds something desirous on the other side. They claim they don't have time to open it.

You have tenure, open that damn door.

how to create immediate antithesis:

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how to crisis

Shane killed himself in front of the library ten months ago. A lot has changed around here.

Today, we conducted our first school-wide Lock Down Drill, a simulated event/incident/nightmare. Leading up to this event, an assembly, faculty meeting, and announcements helped prepare everyone. But some people wanted more. Or, better yet, some people needed more.

Over the last two weeks, people asked questions.

• What do I do if I'm in the hallway and the intruder is right there in front of me?
• Is it okay to run outside?
• Can we use our cell phones?
• If we're to station ourselves in the classrooms in such a way that we can't be seen by someone in the hallway, then how are we supposed to close the blinds on the windows?
• What should we use to cover the glass in the door?

These are valid questions. They are practical and they provide information and protocols. But one question, asked during the assembly, irritated me:

• So I'm in the bathroom, in a stall, sitting on the toilet doing my business and the intruder walks in. What do I do?

Okay, if you know the student who asked the question, you know that it's a student who desperately craves attention; a student who has asked a question or made a comment at every assembly since he entered the high school. Why he is called on is part mystery, part theater of the absurd, but he did ask the question, and he did get an answer.

In fact, we were all told that if we find ourselves 'in a moment' then we should, like the little Amish boy in Witness, lift our legs up to the level of the toilet seat and remain absolutely quiet.

There's just something so disappointing about this question and its response. It is over-specification of an unwritten policy as well as an acute delineation of details.

And then I think about the pointedness of the question and its even more-pointed response, and I realize that the question is nit-picking and its corresponding answer is debilitating.

Sometimes we ask too many questions. Sometimes we ask them because we are not so much interested in the answer as we are with stalling a process.

Sometimes we work too hard to provide answers. Sometimes we over-specify, over-scaffold, and over-justify and we render ourselves paralyzed.

And this Q&A business is slowly emerging as the most profound obstacle in getting teachers on board with change.

if these microwaves could talk

Donate a microwave to your faculty if you have an extra. School-based altruism just feels so good.

But what doesn't feel so good is when the faculty defiles your microwave. Disrespect it long enough, and next thing you know, the microwave may send out an email to your faculty:

Dear Faculty,

It is with great sadness that I come to you today to tell you of my intention to leave Springfield, this Friday, October 26.

I will miss all of you. Thank you for affording me the chance to cook your leftovers and mass-produced frozen dishes.

I am honored to say that I served as your microwave.

Sincerely,
The Microwave in the Faculty Lunchroom

And the microwave would feel justified, proud, and optimistic, but the one who:

1. Donated the microwave, and...
   
2. Crafted the email on behalf of the microwave

Would get a barrage of emails expressing shock that he was really leaving his job.

Honestly, do people not read a three sentence email? Do people really not read?

Wait! I know the answer: NO, they do not read!

So...why on this goodly green planet do teachers always put on the 'golly-geewillickers' face when they lament the fact that their students don't read?

They'll say:

• "I mean, honestly, the instructions are right there on the handout."
• "I even bold-faced the task words."
• "Oh, and don't even get me started on the obvious disregard for the rubric."
• "It's like people make up their own guidelines as they go along."
• "And every handout is available on the mail server, our Moodle class, and in a folder in the classroom."
• "Why bother even putting a scaffolded assignment together? Just do some work and tah-dah!, you've earned a diploma."
• "Books? Are you serious? Do any of them even read a single, grammatically correct sentence?"
• "Microwave-generated emails? Unlikely! Did you hear that Ken is leaving Springfield this Friday?"
  

a little giggle in your ear

because in today's world, you never have to be alone.


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