Scattershot

Black and white and gray all over

It’s easy to say that we all know the difference between right and wrong, but do we? Think of the school cheating scandal in Atlanta. When I first heard of it, I shook my head and thought, “Wrong. These people were wrong to cheat.”

And then, six months ago, I read an article in New Yorker magazine that I have not been able to get out of my mind. It’s very long, but it’s an interesting, thoughtful, and shocking piece. I highly recommend that you take the time to read it. It's called "Wrong Answer," by Rachel Aviv.

I’ll give a very brief summary. The article focuses on Damany Lewis, a former math teacher, and the school where he taught, Parks Middle School, which is located in a rundown Atlanta neighborhood. When Lewis first went to work there, armed robberies and rapes in the area were common, along with drugs, and most kids lived near or below the poverty line. The school was a mess. The building was run down, filled with litter, and things were so out of control that kids urinated in trash cans.

In 2001 a new principal was hired, and he focused “nearly as much on building a sense of community as he did on academics: he renovated the school, hired guidance counselors” and “provided computer classes to parents, who had been so removed from their children’s academic lives that it was a struggle to get them to sign progress reports.” With the help of a program called Project Grad, funded by donors to the district, the school set up after school programs and hired tutors. The school was featured in a 2004 documentary called “Expect the Best” and was described as “a model of what a good school can and should be.”

But then there were those absurd requirements of No Child Left Behind, requiring 100% of students to be proficient in math and reading by 2014. The school’s scores kept improving, but they were never high enough to make “adequate yearly progress.” Another new principal came on board, and the superintendent increased pressure, setting performance targets even more rigorous than those of NCLB. Teacher evaluations were linked to test scores, and principals warned that their schools had to meet targets within three years, or they would be fired. The superintendent “repeated the mantra ‘No exceptions and no excuses,’” and she made good on her threats. Eventually 90% of the principals lost their jobs.

“Data” began ruling everything. Step by step progress wasn’t good enough. More than half of the kids at Parks were performing below grade level, and there was no way they were going to meet the targets set for them. If they didn’t meet them, the school would be closed.

I’m jumping over a lot here, but I’ll get to the point. One year, Damany Lewis, by all accounts an outstanding and beloved teacher, broke into the testing room and erased a few incorrect answers, enough for the school to meet its goals.

And thus began the spiral. The next year the school “had to score even higher to surpass its falsely achieved scores from the previous year.” The superintendent required scores to rise by nearly 3% annually. More and more teachers became involved in correcting tests so that the school would meet the goals set for it.

Eventually, the gig was up. In early 2010, the Government Office of Student Achievement found one in five of the district schools showed evidence of cheating—forty-four schools in all.

When teachers were investigated, it was clear that “most teachers thought they were committing a victimless crime. They didn’t see value in the test, so they didn’t see they were devaluing the kids by cheating,” said one lawyer who sat in on the interviews. "Cheating was just a door they had to pass through in order to focus on issues that seemed more relevant to their students’ lives.” It was clear to teachers that test scores were not the way to solve the problems in these kids’ lives, yet they were told, “No excuse can or will be accepted.” As Damany Lewis said, “Cheating was just something we did in April, when the tests were in the building.”

Twelve teachers and administrators were eventually charged under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations statute, which is generally used against criminal organizations like the Mafia. In April of 2015, eleven of the educators were found guilty of racketeering charges. According to the Los Angeles Times, the judge “had urged the convicted educators to accept an offer from prosecutors that would have allowed them to avoid extensive time behind bars in exchange for taking responsibility, apologizing and waiving their right to appeal. Only two accepted.” The judge then sentenced the rest to prison, reserving his harshest punishment for the three highest ranking educators. They each received seven years in prison, 13 years of probation and a $25,000 fine—later reduced to three years in prison and seven years of probation, with a $10,000 fine and 2,000 hours of community service.

This story makes the “wrongness” of cheating a lot less clear to me. Is cheating any worse than setting impossible standards that no one can ever meet? Is cheating any worse than using data, only data, to determine everything about a school, its teachers, and its students?

When “rules” are violated by so many, as they were in Atlanta, you have to wonder if maybe it is the rules that are the problem, not the people. I look at news clips of those educators being sentenced to jail, and I am disgusted—not so much at their cheating as at a system that set them and their students up for failure.

Read the article.

 

A funny thing about humor

I don't think I've ever heard as much laughter at live theater as I heard this week in Denver at a production of the musical The Book of Mormon—except for a performance I saw of the same musical in New York City. People were absolutely cracking up.

Imagine my surprise then when I heard a man during intermission say, "I just don't get why people are laughing."

Humor is such a strange thing. Years ago, for example, I wrote a funny song for my performing group "Moonlighting Teachers," and it quickly became a standard for every show. Audiences laughed all the way through the song, except at what I thought was the funniest line of all. I just knew the line was funny, and I refused to give up on it. The performer experimented with different ways of delivering the line and finally, after a dozen or so performances, hit upon something that works. The changes are extremely subtle—a slight pause here, a bit more emphasis there—but now the line always gets a big laugh. Strange.

A character in another show I wrote delivered a line that, night after night, did get a big laugh. In this case, however, the line was not meant to be funny and, in fact, was not funny at all. At every performance, the audience would laugh and all of us involved in the show would look at each other and shake our heads, mystified. Why were people laughing? We never figured it out. The only explanation I can come up with is that the character had made people laugh so often in previous scenes that the audience members were conditioned to laugh whenever they saw her. Who knows?

Humor is a funny thing. It's personal. It's generational, at least to a certain extent. It's mystifying. It's also endlessly fascinating, at least to me.

In defense of algebra and other impossible subjects

Letters and musical notes have personalities to me. A "C" in music is definitely female. A "G" is definitely male. "M" and "S" are pretty letters for pretty things ("mucus" and "snot" notwithstanding. You can't be logical with things like this).

Numbers, however, are just numbers. Flat. Devoid of personality. Marks on a page. That's the way I think about them anyway. Maybe that's why I never liked math as much as other subjects when I was in school. In high school I was in the so-called "advanced" math classes, but I slogged through not really understanding much of anything until a "new math" geometry class that involved thinking and logic made a lot of things click for me, including algebra. More or less.

    When I complained about algebra, my mother would say something I've heard a lot of parents say since: "I don't know why you need to learn this stuff. You're never going to use it." She knew my interests lay in music, language, art, drama—not mathematics. She knew there was no chance in hell that I was going to major in math or science in college.

    She was wrong—not about my interests or my major but about how I would never use algebra. I do.

    I was remembering Mom's words as I worked on solving some knotty budgeting problems at my business yesterday. Much to my surprise, I often find myself turning to algebra. What Mom didn't realize, I think, is that if you don't know algebra you won't, of course, ever turn to it. If you do, you might. She also didn't realize that the problem-solving and logic involved in math would come in handy for me. I'm sure she never dreamed I would start my own business some day.

    Though kids often think they know everything, they don't know—can't possibly know—what life is going to have in store for them. Having skills they may never use broadens their options in life. They have more choices. 

    Despite my struggles with it, I'm glad I know and can use basic algebra. I still find numbers to be without personality. But useful? Of course.

Quantity vs. quality

I'm reading a very interesting book called Life Is a Verb, by Patti Digh. It's the kind of book you read a bit at a time, savoring it.

    A few days ago I read the chapter "Polish Your Mud Balls," and I can't get it out of my mind. Digh retells a story from the book Art and Fear about a pottery teacher who tells half his class they will be graded on only one thing: the quantity of the work they produce. He tells the other half of the class that they will also be graded on only one thing: the quality of their work.

    The first group needs only to produce 50 pounds of pottery to receive an "A". The second group needs only to produce one perfect pot to receive an "A".

    The results? The authors report that "The works of highest quality were all produced by the group being graded for quantity…while they were busily churning out piles of work—and learning from their mistakes—the quality group had sat theorizing about perfection, and in the end had little more to show for their efforts than grandiose theories and a pile of dead clay."

    I love this story, probably because it supports a belief I hold about the teaching of writing—that the act of writing in and of itself helps people become better writers. The more students write, the more they loosen up. Their writing becomes more fluid, less tortured. When teachers assign a paper once in a blue moon and then expect students to do everything perfectly according to the latest rubric, they are doing their students no favors, in my opinion. How much more effective it is to challenge students' creativity, giving them quirky, challenging, thoughtful, or even silly writing tasks, daily, and not grading all of them. (Yes, sometimes it's okay to give students credit for just writing a certain amount. You don't have to read everything in order for students to learn.)

    Focusing on quantity doesn't mean forgetting about quality. A teacher might focus on one writing skill at a time, or select papers to grade on a random basis, or sandwich in mini-lessons here and there. Paying less attention to each paper—but requiring more writing overall—can be so much more effective than stifling students with 17 or 18 requirements for one paper.

     Quantity is often way more important, in the long run, than quality. Windston Churchill put it perfectly when he said, "The maxim 'Nothing but perfection' may be spelled 'Paralysis.'"

Too much school?

When I was a freshman, I attended a rambling, old brick high school that covered most of a city block. We had an entire class period for lunch, and I remember those lunch periods fondly. There was no hot lunch program, so my friends and I grabbed our sack lunches and sat under the trees outside whenever the weather permitted. We moseyed over to the little store across the street for candy. We talked and laughed and relaxed, and one of the things I remember best was learning that I could tell stories that made my friends laugh. It was a wonderful discovery and one that I built on in the years to come.

    The following year, the new high school opened. There was a hot lunch program, so lunch changed from one leisurely period to three rushed sections of around 25 minutes each. We spent most of our short lunch period standing in line, getting our food, hurrying to the auditorium to eat, rushing to clean up, finding time to go to the bathroom and our lockers, and then getting to class. Lunch period became a hectic time. For my sophomore through senior years, I have no more fond lunch memories. I remember no more lunchtime discoveries about myself.

    I think about that when I think about the push lately for longer school days and longer school years. I'm not a proponent, at least if it means simply adding more of the same to the school day. Kids don't need more of the same, in my opinion. But if it means bringing in an emphasis on music, art, physical education, and creative time in the classroom, then it might be different. If it means slowing down and allowing kids to eat, play, let off some steam, and nurture friendships during a longer lunch hour, I can see it. If it means truly enriching the school day rather than simply adding more test drill time, I can see it.

    But, sadly, I worry that that's not what proponents have in mind. I'm afraid their eye is on the tests, rather than on the kids and what they might really need. Sometimes a little more time to do a little less can be a good thing.

Too opinionated for my own good

I suppose I am far too opinionated about a few things, and one of the things I am most opinionated about is the teaching of writing. Three things I read today made my blood boil a bit.

    First was the newsaper report that just came out on the status of Colorado schools. Despite schools turning themselves inside out to improve test scores for a number of years now, nothing much has changed—and that includes writing scores. Now if all the teaching for "high-stakes writing tests" that has been done has resulted in no improvement, maybe, just maybe we should look at the approaches that are being used. In my opinion, many of them are simply wrong-headed. They result in kids thinking writing means (a) trying to follow a baffling array of rules and (b) being pretty much bored to death.

    Then I read an ad I got in the mail for a product to teach writing, grades 6-12. It has "metacognitive questionnaires." (Metacognitive!). It has rubrics. (Rubrics!) It uses the computer. (The computer!) It has boring classroom examples. (Boring!.....Okay, the ad didn't say that. I did.) I'm sorry, but just looking at the materials in the ad, I felt completely inadequate. Writing looked way too hard for a mortal being like me. (I suppose it didn't help that I had to look up "metacognitive.")

    Then I picked up English Journal and read a piece written in what I call "snooty style," and it made me a little crazy, too, with its clear focus on methods that, yes, can work quite well in a writing lab or with a small group of students who really want to improve their writing. But what about those teachers facing 33 eighth graders who mostly don't care about improving their writing? Using the same methods would result in disaster. I've taught small groups of passionate writers. I've taught small groups of so-called "remedial" students who wanted to improve in a college writing lab. And I've taught those 33 eighth graders. I'm sorry, but they are not all the same.

   What's needed with those 33 eighth graders? In my opinion, it's more language play. We need to engage them with creative, silly, goofy, interesting, and/or challenging writing activities that get their attention and allow them to see language in a new light. We need to let them have some fun with language and see its power. We need to let them experiment and use their brains and share. What we don't need is more rubrics and metacognitive questionnaires.

     

Dealing with difficult kids

Because Cottonwood Press is creating an updated edition of our book Survival Tips for New Teachers, I've been thinking about dealing with difficult kids lately. One of the things we probably don't want to tell new teachers is that their reward for being able to handle difficult students will be that other difficult students will be transferred to their classes. Even if you love your students and are great at your job, a classroom full of the school's problem kids is not easy for any teacher.

     I discovered an interesting approach to the problem when I was teaching. A counselor came to me begging me to take a student who had been kicked out of another English class. The student was a big behavior problem and was also failing most classes. I happened to be teaching an honors English class at the time, so I told the counselor I would take the student if she would put him in my honors class.

     She thought I was crazy, but I insisted. My theory was this: in a classroom of low-achieving students, the student's behavior would be rewarded. The kids would likely egg him on. In the honors class, the kids would not encourage him. They would help keep him in line. And, while he might not be working at the same level as the other students, he would likely learn more than he would in a class where his time was spent acting out.

     It worked. No, he wasn't transformed overnight into a model student, but he behaved. He listened. He tried, at least some of the time, which was a great improvement over the past.

     I repeated that technique over the years, and I found it always to be successful. A difficult student in an honors or gifted class always proved much more manageable than a difficult student in a "regular" class or a class of low achievers.

A testing problem from the business world

At a party this week-end, I ran into a woman I've known for many, many years. It turns out she reads Scattershot and could really relate to my blogs on testing. "I am a terrible test taker," she said. "I second guess everything."

     I was surprised. She is a very bright business woman. But then she told me one of her worst test-taking experiences. She was about to be named manager of a large franchise, but there was one more detail to work out. The Colorado representative she had been working with assured her it was just a formality, but she had to take a test designed to measure her trustworthiness. He was very casual about it, low-key, inviting her over to his house to take the test. She took it at his kitchen table while he did other things, and they sent it off.

     She failed. The whole deal was off, and she was a mess. Now I have to tell you that this is a person whose "trustworthiness" should never be in question. If she were working for me, I'd let her have access to intimate company financial matters in a heartbeat.

     It turns out she over-analyzed everything. If the test asked if she had ever taken a paper clip off someone's desk, and she actually had not, she would think, "I'll bet they ask this to see if you'll say 'no' because everyone has taken a paper clip off someone's desk. So I probably should say 'yes'...or maybe not." She struggled with each question and applied her own logic. Apparently her own logic was not to be trusted.

     To her credit, she finally came up with a proposal. She asked to sit down with a company representatives and tell them why she had answered each question as she had. Someone had the sense to agree, and her answers satisfied them. She got the job.

    Wouldn't it be nice if kids got to explain some of their wrong answers?

Too safe for their own good?

When my husband was a kid, he remembers sliding down the icy roof of a barn in a dishpan, aiming to land in a deep pile of snow. He missed the pile of snow and landed, hard, on the ground.

    Now maybe this wasn't the brightest idea in the world, but he was having fun. He was also doing what the American Association of Pediatrics describes as important in child development—taking a risk. A fascinating recent article in the Wall Street Journal discusses how Amercans' obsession with safety is contributing to one in six children in America being obese. The Center for Disease Control says that the problem "would basically cure itself if children engaged in the informal outdoor activities that used to be normal." By making sure everything they do is safe, we deprive children of learning their limits, taking personal responsibility, and getting a lot of exercise.

     According to the article, risk is an attraction for kids, and it should be. If a rubber safety mat designed to reduce playground injuries gets hot in the sun, perhaps the answer is not to put up canopies or to get rid of the playgrounds. Perhaps kids need to learn that wearing shoes is a smart idea on a playground. Instead of banning tag or running, as some schools have done, maybe schools should let kids get a few scrapes and bruises.

     Read the article. I think Phillip K. Howard makes an excellent point.  Article

Nourishing minds

A friend of mine moved to another state last year. She was appalled at the schools and is now homeschooling her three kids.

     In her recent letter, this line stood out: "The school the boys attended is supposed to be the best, but only at test taking, we found."

     She told of science, art, and p.e. classes being cut, and no counselors on staff. She said, "There is so much pressure on the teachers to get their children to perform well on standardized tests that memorization has taken the place of real learning. And what they are being tested on seems of little consequence to me. Why are we not nourishing their minds? I am sick over it."

     Yes, that's what the emphasis on test-taking does; it makes schools lose sight of the real reason for education: nourishing minds.