There was a bit of school culture shock moving from DC to Atlanta.
People and things move slower.
“Ma’am” quickly became a way of life.
The cafeteria Fried Fish Fridays gave me one more reason to believe in God and the plans He has for my life.
And children were given guardrails instead of mandates. Ways in which they should move within their school community and a clear outline for what would happen if they chose not to, but within those parameters was a sense of freedom I had not seen.
Coming from a school that was tighter made this a shock. It took me a minute to acclimate my ears to volumes higher than whispers and to get used to kids asking me if they could give me feedback on something I had said or done that had an unintended impact on them or their classmates.
It didn’t take long for me to settle into this way of doing school and soon it was just how I operated. And operating in this way feels right.
I hadn’t even thought of the differences between my old school and my current one until a young woman came to interview for a teaching position.
She was transitioning from up north where it was, quite frankly, becoming too expensive to be a teacher and live a decent life (a topic for a whole ‘nother post). She had been working for an organization that didn’t have schools here in the south and as a result she had come to us thinking we were the same. She was prepared, very likeable, and had strong teacher moves.
The problem?
Kids with freedom freaked her out.
She walked into classrooms where kids were talking, calling out answers for math problems while thinking through equations more complex than my literacy brain could handle and it made her nervous.
She commented on the “looseness” (teacher code for this is a borderline hot mess) and in that moment all she could see was that kids weren’t sitting in desks with their hands folded on top.
What she failed to see was that she was sitting in a math classroom with a teacher who has data that proves he is literally one of the most effective math teachers in the state of Georgia.
When asked about the thing she loves the most in her classroom, she paused for a moment. Unsure of how to answer. She finally said,
“I really like chalk talks. Kids don’t really talk in my class. In my organization, they aren’t allowed to. So when we do chalk talks it gives them a chance to get out of their seat and share ideas with one another.”
Ultimately, she decided she didn’t think our building was the right fit for her and while I am always disappointed to see a quality teacher choose another option, I can’t say I disagree with her choice.
Now, this isn’t a scathing post about how terrible just hearing about her school culture feels (but if I’m honest it doesn’t feel great). I have to acknowledge that this particular organization is making incredible instructional gains with the same black and brown kids up north that we have down south. And I realize what those gains mean for the choices available to students and the potential impact it has on their lives.
And it pushed me to think about a question that I haven’t thought of in a really long time–because honesty, I haven’t had to.
How does a kid, who doesn’t have the power to speak out in class, find the skills and the courage to speak out in the world?
I remember the first time I got feedback from my kids at my current school.
It was my second day.
And two of my girls, Cydney and Kristina, came to me and asked me if I was open to feedback.
Now, I pride myself on having awesome relationships with the my kids…but no 7th grader has ever asked me that question before.
I told them yes and while they sat there and communicated how the impact of some data I had shown in my class had made them feel dumb, I felt like I was getting smaller and smaller by the minute as these two young ladies professionally and respectfully told me about myself.
And they had been so right.
And I have no doubt that they will be able to use those skills to professional and respectfully set straight anyone who tries to intentionally or unintentionally question their intelligence.
And since being here, I have seen this time and time again. Students who have written petitions to not wear uniforms on field trips, who have organized a fundraising dance for hurricane victims, students who have communicated the unfairness of being told their bra strap is unintentionally showing as an adult walks by a young man with his pants intentionally sagging.
All of these small things started from the same core tenant:
Kids are empowered to change their community because they have a voice that matters to more than just them.
And that’s where the guardrails come into play.
At our school, we have a system for giving feedback.
And it happens in all directions. I can give feedback to my principal, a student can give feedback to me, kids give it to each other.
It works, because kids trust that feedback will be listened to. They also know that listening sometimes causes change and sometimes it doesn’t.
Sometimes I wish I could merge the systems and urgency of my old school with the agency and advocacy of my current one.
Kids have to be challenged instructionally and empowered to use their voice.
Real impactful student practice can’t happen in chaos and children weren’t designed to be silent and still for 9 hours a day.
Systems and rules can live in a building without it feeling oppressive.
In 2018 I shouldn’t have to say it, but ya’ll know I have to:
What does it say about how we see black and brown children when they’re never allowed to speak in classes? How can kids change the systemic inequities in the world when they’re oppressed in the very spaces that promise liberation?
We can’t say we want passionate, engaged, world changing adults and then build silent, compliant robot versions of kids.
There’s magic in our musings (and our children),
Nicole