What Our Kids Are Telling Us

This may sound simple, and it should be: we, as teachers, really need to listen to the most important people in our classrooms, the kids. They are often going to give us the most honest, most sincere, and most insightful feedback we could hope to receive.

Maybe that was why I was so happy to get a message this summer from a young person who graduated last May.  She wanted to share an idea for a lesson that she thought sounded like something I and other English teachers on our team would use in our classes. It meant a great deal to me that she would read about a lesson that she felt would be good for our students and share it with me. She cares not just about her education, but about the kids that will follow her now that she has graduated.

The lesson was not strictly "English" in nature. It was social-emotion, focusing on empathy, compassion, trust, and relationships.  I will admit that the ELA classroom, with writing, literature, and communication as the daily focus, has at its center those concepts a great deal of the time. I try to reflect often on what works in my classroom, what helps students learn and grow, and what might keep kids from learning and growing as much as they could. I do not do it nearly enough, but I do try. So, I asked her why she thought of us when she read this lesson. She had been a good student, she had grown throughout her HS years, maturing and developing not just as a writer and reader, but also as a person, and she had found a place in several different classrooms.  I felt her insights would be valuable, and I wanted to know more.

The lesson she shared provides students with a way to share the weight of some of what they carry with them each day, to understand one another better. It gives kids a chance to find commonality and build trust. I asked her why this lesson was one she connected with her ELA teachers. Her response, while short, was meaningful. "...you guys just have that environment in your classrooms. It's not just about English. It's almost more of what words can do for you."

"It's not just about English. It's almost more of what words can do for you."

The way she phrased that idea really struck me. It's about what words can do for you. Isn't that what we are aiming for each and every day?  If our classes are just about memorizing grammar rules or learning to narrow down answers on a standardized test, are we really giving our kids skills, inspirations, or passions that will drive them in the future? Isn't it better to help them learn to express themselves in their writing and find themselves, or others, in literature?

So, fast forward to today. Recently, we "finished" our exploration of Fahrenheit 451.  ("Finished" because we are never really finished with a novel, if it touches us, are we?) On the reflection students completed, I received a comment. It hit me, hard, in the face, and continues to pound me in the gut. With her permission, I share it with you here:

"I thought the novel was interesting, and I am glad I got to be pushed out of my comfort zone to read something I probably wouldn't be able to understand. After reading this book it has made me rethink a lot about myself, and how little I question anything anymore. It is a little sad that out of everything, I am probably the biggest Mildred in your class, and a little funny to see myself that way. I always have taken things as they are presented to me, and just did the work. I never questioned it, and I think it's this looming anxiety that often controls me to not ask because I am afraid of breaking rules. Everyone thinks I am smart, and often says that, but I am nothing without school, and I know that. All my peers know how to be humans, and I am just a product of a system with no real outside knowledge other than what I get from Youtube. I have opinions, don't get me wrong, and I will stand up for them if it involves someone else, but I have no world sense and I haven't questioned anything important since kindergarten. I am so afraid of being wrong that I have spent too much time looking for the right answers that everyone else wants to hear, that I let myself get shadowed away. After reading this book I want to change that. I want to be more assertive, and I thank you for this opportunity."

"I am nothing without school, and I know that...I am so afraid of being wrong that I have spent too much time looking for the right answers that everyone else wants to hear, that I let myself get shadowed away."

Shadowed away.  This young person is bright. She is "perfect student" by so many measures. While she is reluctant to admit it, she is creative. She has grown immensely in the short time we have had together this fall, primarily through her own efforts. She began the year frustrated because our discussions and activities often were such that the "right answers" were not laid out, there to be copied into notes and memorized.  But she fought through that frustration and took part, cultivating an inquisitive nature that is obviously there, clearly waiting to be nurtured and fed. And yet, the words she used to describe herself were "Nothing without school" and "shadowed away". 

That makes me shudder.

And we have allowed this to happen. 

We have. 

Us. 

How many discoveries have were put on hold, how many cures for diseases, novels that inspire and challenge, businesses that build the community, or passions that create happiness have we stomped on, have we shadowed away in the search for the right answer, the test score, the data to publish in the newspaper to show we are better than the district down the road?

How many kids have we allowed to feel like "nothing"? 

We know it is not true, but that is the perception, and, therefore, for her, and for so many others, it is their reality.

So, what can we learn from these two students who have shared their thoughts with me? What do they tell us about what we are doing well in school today, or maybe should be doing to best serve our kids? 

I know that teachers want what is best for our kids. I see that every single day and witness incredible interactions and growth in kids, teachers, and administrations.  Amazing things are happening in our schools, and outstanding people are leaving our doors and changing the world. But, let's be honest: we can do better. We owe it to the young people we mingle with each day. How can we build on those great ideas, put them into motion, and make the best for our kids? How can we ignite meaningful, positive change and growth, and make the best things we are doing better, for our kids? How can we tap into the hearts and passions of those very kids and provide the springboards that will let them succeed, not in just being good students, but in being amazing human beings? 

The fact is, this amazing young person (both of them) is reflecting and growing.  I am proud of her and inspired by her ability to look inward to see how she can be better. She is so incredibly far from "nothing". She is pushing herself to be a better her.  She is pushing me to be better. She is stepping out of the shadows. 

Now, how do we do the same? 

To Leave Something Behind

Here we are in the midst of another summer. For many teachers, summer is a time of renewal and rejuvenation. Over the last few years, it has also been a time when letters and posts have gone viral, letters and posts where teachers lay out why they are leaving the profession. These viral posts have always bothered me.  I appreciate the courage that those posting have in laying public why they are unhappy with their now-former profession. I even agree with many of their points. And it bothers me to see good people leave the world of teaching. We need great people, great teachers, to continue to build and overhaul this system to best serve our young people.

And it frustrates me because I cannot see myself walking away from this world of teaching, from my colleagues, and most importantly, from my kids. I am not faulting those who have; we each have to choose our own way. But for me, what makes me want to stay and help improve this profession far outweighs the frustration I feel on any given day. I struggled with a way to explain my thoughts on this touchy topic.

Then, as I pondered what I should write several weeks ago, I saw a blog post on Twitter by @DennisDill, in which he gave his reasons for NOT leaving teaching. That in itself had a positive effect, knowing others are as frustrated and yet as positive about what we get to do each day as I am.  It doesn't mean he, nor I, believe everything about teaching and about public education in America, in Kansas, or in Buhler is perfect. It's not. But it is still the greatest profession on this planet, and in the words of my Dad, I'm "where I am supposed to be."

"Why?" you might ask. Why would I still get up each morning (yes, even on mornings all summer when I get up at 5:15 am to work with our athletes in the summer program)  and wholeheartedly believe, passionately believe, that there is no better profession to wade knee-deep into each day? That is a fair question. I will try to answer it as best I can.

I recently saw a Tweet in which a teacher asked for everyone's favorite or most impactful line or passage from a piece of literature. I have a long list of impactful passages that are permanently imprinted in my mind. Certain ones will press forward at different times and in different situations when they seem most fitting, as if the lines themselves realize they fit in that moment. Lately, one passage has been echoing.

Near the end of Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, one of the wandering fugitives tells our protagonist, and us, the readers, this:

“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.

It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.”

Then, twice in the last two days, as I have flipped through channels, once late at night and once in the middle of the afternoon, I stumbled upon the end of a little Ben Affleck film titled The Accountant. At the end of the film, a song, "To Leave Something Behind" by Sean Rowe, plays over the closing scenes. As I listened to the lyrics, the 451 quote became fresh, and I figured that it was a sign of sorts.  So, here I write.

It is my duty, my passion, my hope to leave something behind that will make the world a better place. No other place allows for that to happen in such an impactful way as the classroom. In "To Leave Something Behind," Sean Rowes sings,

"I can get through the wall if you give me a door

So I can leave something behind" (31-32).

Those lines, among others, stood out for me. So often this is what we see in our kids. They have amazing dreams, they have incredible talents, they have unquenchable ambitions, and they too many times feel as if they are surrounded by walls. What do they need from us to succeed? They need doors, or at the least, windows, that will allow them to realize those dreams, to develop and use those talents, and to chase those ambitions. For each kid, that door is slightly different. For some, it is a set of French doors, displaying the future and letting the sun shine in, urging them to push them open and explore the world outside.  Some stride up to saloon doors and need only to put up a hand, swing them wide, and strut on to the next adventure. For others, the door is massive, heavy, and locked. It doesn't matter how hard they slam themselves into the door, it won't budge. They need a key, and we must help them find it. Sometimes, even when that key has been placed in their sweaty and calloused palms, they still sit before the door, frustrated and heaving, because it seems so heavy and imposing. They have seen the others glide through the French doors, boldly kick open the swinging saloon doors, and they do not understand why they can't do the same. Sometimes, they fear that if they are somehow able to grunt and grind enough for the door to open just a crack, they will only get a glimpse before it slams shut on them. Or, even scarier, that they will slip past before it closes, but in doing so, will leave the only safe place they have ever known behind.

So what can we do?  We give each kid what they need to not only find the door and open it, but to survive in the world they step into beyond the door. While we have them, we need to help build them up, show them how to carve their own keys, teach them the combinations that will allow the tumblers to fall. We need to fill their knapsacks and pull carts with the tools they will need after they pass through the door. And sometimes, after they cross the threshold, we have to watch them from the window, peeking through the curtains now and then, and maybe whisper, or shout, words of encouragement or advice. Sometimes, we might even need to trot down the path and help them up when they stumble.  We cannot carry them all the way down the road, but we can brush them off now and then, and maybe add to the provisions they carry with them.

(Maybe I read too much into that metaphor. Maybe not. It's my blog, so I do what I want.)

So how do I help my students, present, past, and future, find those doors, fashion their keys, and throw them open? I have to get better. Every. Single. Day. There is such a wealth of knowledge, skill, creativity, and insight at my disposal, and I would be cheating my kids, slamming those doors a little tighter, if I didn't try to learn and grow as much as I can. That is what I love about summer.  I get to read. I go to NerdCampKS. I learn through others about trauma, reading, writing, social justice, and so many other times that play a role in my classroom. I spend time, relaxed and unpressured, with my colleagues and friends who make me so much better, discussing ideas, hashing out issues, exploring new perspectives, and lifting one another up. I cannot say enough about the people around me, my IRL PLN, who elevate me and drive me to be better, whether I am feeling pretty good about myself or if I am feeling like a monumental failure. I spend time on Twitter, enjoying access to those there who have different experiences, insights, perspectives, and approaches. It is not always pleasant for me; some of the best in my PLN challenge me and my thinking, many times without even knowing  me, and that is a good thing. At the same time, they inspire me. Perhaps most importantly, I get to reflect on what I have done well, where I failed, and where I have grown. So often, this reflection is prompted by my students, my kids. They are the experts in who they are, and so often, without knowing it, they teach me about being a better teacher and a better person.

How is that for irony? The best way for me to leave something worthwhile behind, to allow the world to become somehow better when I leave it than it was when I got here, is by listening to the very ones who I hope to leave the most lasting impact on. To leave something behind, I have to be aware of what they are leaving behind for me.

Ad that is what I will to do, right here, where I am supposed to be.   

One of Dad's Lessons

Today is Father's Day, so I will keep this brief; you all need to be out doing things with your kids or you Dads, not reading something you opened through a link on your Twitter or Facebook page. That said, thanks for that click.

So here it is. My first and greatest teacher is my Dad. I honestly believe he is one of the prominent reasons I am a teacher today, and more specifically, an English teacher.  Those of you who know that Mom carries in her billfold a yearbook picture of Dad, one that captures him head on desk, sleeping in class, might question that belief, but I know it is true. Without a doubt.

I could create an extensive list of the lessons Dad taught me, and I have spent a lot of time thinking about that lately. But, as I said, I want this to be brief. (Oddly enough, it just struck me that this too is something I learned from Dad. No need to drag things out. Say it, do it, write it, whatever, but do it. People have things to do. I may not have learned it very well, but he tried to teach it.)

So what is this monumental lesson, the one that I believe has led me into the most rewarding passion that exists? Simple: READ.

That's the whole tweet, as they say.

READ.

As with so many of the valuable lessons Dad taught us, he didn't ever tell me this.  He never sat down stared into my young eyes, one of them drifting off and having to be consciously drawn back into the conversation, and said, "Son, you need to read.  Books will take you places." No, that wasn't Dad's style. Instead, he did it. Yeah, long before Nike thought they were marketing geniuses, Dad owned that concept. Work needs to be done? Just do it. Kids don't believe you can stand on a ball like the bear in the circus? Just do it. (If you are not laughing right now, that is a story for another day. But he did it.)

Dad just did it. He taught us that reading is what you did. There is a sign in the library at BHS that says RMR. Real Men Read. Um, duh. That was never something I had to be told, and I definitely didn't need to be convinced it was true.  I already knew it, and it was a natural as breathing. Every day of my life, I saw it. Mom and Dad both had ever-present stacks next to their chairs in the livingroom. Each night after work, Dad would sit down and read the newspaper, front page to back page. Yes, the TV was on most evenings during my childhood, but it was more of a background soundtrack than a focus because everyone had a book open. Dad's favorites were nonfiction, and they included books focused on history and biographies. There might be a sports book in his stack, and after I graduated from high school and he took up golf, Golf Digest became a constant.

Some of my clearest me memories from childhood involve going to the library. We would walk with our cousins to the Ellsworth Library on Saturday mornings after cartoons ended and The Baseball Bunch was over.  Sometimes, Mom would take us. We took part in every reading activity, contest, and program they offered. And they stayed open on certain evenings.  That is when Dad took us to the library.  As we walked in the front doors, we would turn left and descend the stairs to the children's library. Dad would continue up the stairs to the adult section. Usually, after we found our books and checked them out, we would traipse back up the stairs and go looking for Dad. He checked out books. Lots of books. In our house, stacks on stacks on stacks referred to books. I realized that that is my house now. And my kids have seen it every day. If I spend time in a room, there are books there.

Dad and Mom taught me, taught all of us, that you read. It is just what you do. Today, I try to teach kids too. I hope that this is one of the lessons I can pass on to not just my own children but to my kids that I am blessed to work with in my classroom. A great friend of mine, Samantha Neill, included a section in a recent presentation that said (and I paraphrase here) that to get our kids to read good books, we have to read good books so that our kids see us doing it and so that we can talk to them about those books as they read them. This seems so elementary, and yet, it is so powerful.

And it is so true. I am living proof of that. I learned Dad's lesson, even though he was not trying to teach it. He was just doing it.

READ. And let them (whoever they are) see you doing it.

My End of the Year Teacher List

I have had a veritable plethora of blog drafts rolling through my head lately.  Maybe it is the end of the school year vibe, or the fact that I have trouble even finishing sentences lately, or maybe the guilt I am swallowing as I avoid grading, but those drafts don't fully develop before I move on to the next amazing thought. Then, last week, I read Micheala Esau's latest offering in the William Jewell student publication. It was a list of things she has learned during her first year of college. Yesterday, Lindsey Maschler structured her welcome speech at Buhler High graduation as a list of things she will miss and not miss from her time in high school. As so often happens, inspiration came from my students, or in this case, former students. So, my end of the school year 2019 list is here. I guess it is for teachers.

Listen to your students.
This should be a no-brainer, but it is amazing how often we need to be reminded to just listen once in a while. I have a huge advantage over some teachers in the fact that both of my kids who share my DNA have also been my students. Emily, currently driving toward the end of her college career, is my go to resource for Pop Culture Literature. She is insightful and thoughtful, and her ideas on what will touch a nerve or feed a flame with my current students is invaluable. She reminds me that each student is so much more than "just a kid", and that words, looks, and actions have meaning. My son Dylan, who graduated yesterday, has offered me the opportunity to truly step into the shoes of a student in our classes. He is honest and fair. He does not complain to complain, so I know when he tells me something he has noticed, it is sincere, and when he tells me what is triggering new thinking or causing him to view things from a new perspective, those observations are legitimate. I have the advantage of daily professional learning through honest student feedback, and I need to take advantage of that.

My other kids, the ones whose parents share with me as they walk our halls and stride through my classroom door, need to be heard just as often. "Duh." you say. And you are right. But this goes so far beyond listening to see if a kid knows the answer for an upcoming test, or if they have questions of the material from yesterday's lecture. We use discussion often in our classroom. During our Honors Sophomore English Exit Interviews this spring, the most consistent feedback has related to the importance of those discussions. Students say that it is during discussions that they feel they have grown the most as learners, and often as people. Some pointed out that discussions have taught them that it is important to listen to the ideas other people have because it has caused them to think more deeply about their own ideas. It is ok to think differently from another person and listen to what they have to say. It is ok to disagree with other people and speak up with civil confidence in a way that will allow them to hear you. It is ok to disagree with yourself. That comment struck me. One student who said that for the first time, she let herself be wrong, and that that is what allowed her to learn. This happened during discussion. Some days, I played an incredibly minor role in discussion. Those were the amazing days. Those were the days that students not only thought deeply, but listened just as deeply, and by stepping back, they owned the material, the lesson, the learning. I know this because I could listen to them. They taught me new ways to approach things. They renewed my excitement. They allowed me to grow as a teacher and as a person.

Currently, we are in the process of exploring ways to improve our schools. The process is called redesign. The greatest resource we have had in this process has been our students. They have incredible ideas, and they will find the research to back it up. We have to listen to them. I heard someone complain that when we ask students for input on big issues such as redesign, the kids just don't understand how the system works. I completely agree. And that is one of their greatest assets. They are not bound by "the system", so their ideas are not restricted by it, and that is what we need. Sometimes, we have to get out of our own way, and listening to our kids just might be a way to do that.

Listening to our kids is a continuous process that takes on many forms. I won't go into them all here, but just think about how often we have the chance to really listen to our students, and, sadly, how often we forget to do that.

That leads me to item #2 on my list:
Be a learner. Always. Growth is just as important for teachers as it is for students.
I would say that for many teachers, one of their hopes is that when a student leaves their classroom, that young person is in some way better than when they walked through the door for the first time. I know it is one of my top goals. But guess what: each of those students is going to have an effect you too. The learning that goes on is a two way street. And because of the students who I am blessed to work with, I am a better teacher, a better leader, and a better person.

Sometimes, that learning is content-focused. Every year, something happens that causes me to view our literature in a new perspective. It might be the student who lights up as she picks up on new allusions that had set hidden before she uncovered them. It might be a use of color symbolism in a new film that a student tweets about over Christmas break. Of course, those content-based epiphanies usually springboard into even more significant learning, swirling into themes and perspectives that go far beyond the page.

Sometimes, that learning has little to do with content. It is about people. And when it comes down to it, that is what is most important, regardless of content. My kids have taught me enough about patience, tolerance, grace, resilience, and vulnerability to fill volume upon volume of teacher education textbooks, textbooks which no one would probably read, because you have to be in the middle of it to learn these lessons. And for those who ask "But what about the content?" these are the lessons that allow content to be learned. Not learned more effectively; learned at all.

Once again, this leads to my next item:
Be open. 
I tell my students that when we write, really write as we want to write, we are sweating and bleeding on the page.  That is difficult. And if we expect young people to shed that metaphorical blood, we have to be willing to do the same.  Sometimes it is in the form of laughter; sometimes it is tears. Sometimes it is simply being willing to admit a mistake. That whole "Never let them see you sweat" or "Don't smile before Christmas" garbage has gotten in the way of so many promising teachers.  Does anyone actually believe it makes you a better teacher? We want our kids to stretch and risk failure.  Guess what? That means we have to be open to failure too, and we have to be vulnerable with our kids to do that.

We also need to be open to letting other people in our rooms.  This could be sharing our stories on social media, celebrating our student successes. It could be asking questions on that platform to gain new insights from our PLN. It could be listening to parents' concerns and seeing where they arise from. It could be welcoming other teachers into our classrooms. We are not in competition. We are in this together.

This spring, I had a student-teacher for the first time. I had STs come into my room in the past, but in my 25 years, I had never allowed myself to welcome a preservice teacher into my world for a whole semester. I can tell you this: it has been one of the best experiences of my professional career. She has forced me to examine why I do some of the things I do, she has identified areas in which I need to improve, and she has brought fresh ideas and perspectives to my classroom. In short, she has made me a better teacher, and she is a new friend. If I had let my insecurity keep that door closed, the biggest losers would have been me and, in turn, my students.

For now, I will end this list with this related item:
Find your people. 
We are not in this alone. Teaching is a social profession and a collective passion. We cannot do it alone, and we do not have to. I touched briefly on the advantage of having a student-teacher this semester. She is now one of my people, and we were blessed to have real-time conversations on a daily basis. Sometimes, we helped each other improve from one day to the next, or from one moment to the next. That blessing extends down my hall. The best support system I could ask for is only a few steps away. Hallway collaboration is a powerful tool, and at times in my career I have not taken advantage of that. The teachers, coaches, administration around me each day are an uplifting force. I couldn't survive without them.

I know some people will say, "That is nice if you have those people down the hall. But I am my whole department" or "The people down the hall are kind of toxic. I can't deal with that right now." Fair enough. However, your people are not limited by the walls of your building. Some of the best "people" I have are elementary teachers. I always admired grade school teachers, but I now know just how much I can learn and grow from being around them. It's incredible.

Go even further: your people are only a tweet, vox, or insta post away. Voxer groups give me a chance to connect with awesome teachers in an instant. I learn and draw inspiration each and every day from teachers across the country thanks to Twitter. Hanna Lehr, that student-teacher I was bragging about, turned me on to so many new resources on Instagram. I have been active as an educator on Twitter for quite a while, but this is a new platform for me, and it offers new chances to grow. So reach out. My Twitter handle is @JasonKohls. You may not gain a lot from following me, but you will get to see the amazing people I follow, and what hashtags might offer a chance to connect further. And I follow back. I fill my timeline with as much positive learning portals as I can.

There you have it, my list.  I know it rambled and is yet incomplete. It is what it is.

What would you add?

Today's Lesson

So, I just looked at my Blogger page and am ashamed to admit the number posts that carry the blazing orange Draft label.  Ok, I'm not quite Hester strutting around with a scarlet A stitched on my pullover, but still, for someone who is on his kids to write, develop ideas, and share them, it is a little embarrassing. I even went into an older draft and deleted what was there to start this one, just so another Draft wouldn't be sitting there screaming at me next time. It's been a rough winter, and I have puked thoughts on the electronic page, but I cannot seem to scrape them into a pile worth publishing.  But I am going to on this one.  I promise.

All right. Moving on.

This semester, I have been blessed to have a student-teacher. No, that is not one of the things that has made it a rough winter; quite the contrary. Mrs. Lehr has been one of the bright spots. She and the others in my BHS family are the primary reasons I have made it to the point where I can see Spring Break on the horizon with my sanity intact.

One of the greatest things about Mrs Lehr taking on my classes has been the opportunity for me to be in the student role. Today was one of those days. During Honors Soph English, we were taking part in a Poe-Tree activity (Mrs. Lehr was pretty tickled at her pun), and I was able to sit in with a group whose members had pulled "Strange Fruit" from the Poe-Tree.  Mrs. Lehr starter question was "What is your initial reaction to the poem after reading it?" After a student read the poem aloud, I looked around the circle. "I don't like this. How it makes me feel." "I got a chill just now." "I'm really uncomfortable right now." "This makes my stomach hurt." One student just shook her head. Another bit her nails.

So, we got to discuss visceral reactions. Good poetry, good literature of any kind, can do that. It makes you feel. Then you get to my favorite question, the one kids probably get tired of us asking: Why? That is when we really start thinking. The kids ran with it. This poem, for this group, did it through imagery. It juxtaposed the beauty and serenity with the grotesque and disturbing. That left a knot in some kids' bellies. It did so with lines loaded with sensory details, but open enough to allow each reader to bring their own connections, those little bits of themselves, to the table. Each student said they could close their eyes and picture the scene; however, each individual's scene was a little different. Grandma's yard, an sunlit field with a single poplar, a warm countryside broken up by scattered trees, fields awash in the perfume of magnolias.  And then, as one student said, "The scene withered." The beauty dimmed. The overpowering scent of burning flesh and rot drowned the magnolia. Darkness suffocated the sunshine.

One young lady said at that point, images of her younger relatives invaded her mind. That upset her. A lot.

The group talked about imagery, about metaphor, about powerful words.  We talked about the "blood on the leaves and blood at the root." We talked about our past, about our more recent history. And we talked about today.

Mrs Lehr has already come up with ways to make the activity better. She felt like in one of our classes we didn't reach as many students as we could have. And I agree; we can do things better. Always.

At the end of this hour, the student I was next to looked up at the clock. "Oh wow. We talked the whole hour."

Yes, we did. And from where I was sitting, it was a pretty valuable hour.


We'll do better. We always have to look at how we can do better. That's how we grow.

The Teacher in Me Says "I Love Netflix"

I love Netflix.

I can hear some of my teacher friends and fellow parents screaming or groaning already.

Netflix. That hole that keeps kids from doing homework.
The Siren that hides below the desk top on a cellphone pulling them away from those lectures.
That desert that leads young people to damnation with "Watch Next Episode in 3...2...1..."

Yes, that Netflix. 

You see, Netflix is making me a better teacher. Since the day a young lady named Sydney let me use her account because she wanted me to watch Dexter, I have enjoyed watching what the streaming service has to offer, and I have enjoyed even more talking to people, usually students, about what we've watched.

Netflix gave us a conduit, a connection, a common ground. Once you have that, well, conversation is bound to follow. And with conversation comes thought. And with thought comes understanding.

This weekend, I have a conversation, through text messages, about Black Mirror: Bandersnatch. Sam and I discussed the storytelling technique the film uses. We also discussed the themes of the film that he had thought about, in particular, those related to drug use and the desire for control in people's lives. A similar conversation had taken place in one of my English classes last week. Students were talking about the film as the bell rang, and we took the opportunity to carry that on after class started. We touched on the irony of making choices that seem to be so wrong, but are in fact the only choices that can lead to a positive outcome. My kids got into the concept of control and making decisions, the idea that maybe no one truly has complete freedom to make decisions for themselves, uninfluenced by outside forces.

I don't know what good could come from talking to 16 year-olds about feeling like you have little control in your life. What relevance is there in that discussion?

We may have even had one of those "mind blown" moments. It was neat.

It goes beyond Bandersnatch. Over Christmas break, multiple students messaged me with ideas about Bird Box. They connected it literature we had read. They examined symbolism and character development. They dove into theories they had about theme. We discussed themes about anxiety and depression, about parental protectiveness, about hope for the future, and how these themes and concepts were expressed in film. Heady stuff.  On their time. During a vacation. And I don't even have these kids in class anymore (although they are still my kids).

One summer, a student sent me a recommendation for the Black Mirror series. He thought it connected with Fahrenheit 451 and felt I would like it. I did. And it gave us another way to discuss the "pores" we can find in pop culture literature, the texture that adds depth, not just to literature but to our lives, to society, and to our experiences.

In short, I love that Netflix gives another way for people to think, to see themselves in a variety of ways, to find those windows and mirrors and sliding glass doors that make literature of all kinds, GOOD LITERATURE of all kinds so valuable and worthwhile.  

Yeah, it can be a distraction. It can get in the way sometimes. It's not all hunky-dorry. But nothing is. And if it can create another connection to students, a way for them to talk about what they think and feel, a way for them to learn, especially on a higher level, a way for me to get a little clearer glimpse of who they are, well, I'll take it.