It's the Numbers, Stupid!

Ms. K sits at her old, wooden desk. It's 7 pm. Her head is almost hidden behind piles of paper stacked like bricks in a white wall in front of her. Tonight she is looking at math papers, an assessment of her students' progress. Her desk is covered with test forms, answer documents, and a spreadsheet that summarizes the students' scores. She puts her fingers next to a couple of names, notices the column marked "at risk." She knows she will have to explain their poor performance to expert evaluators, they missed two out of three questions, and she will have to document what remedial action she plans to take. These things would be reasonable if she was teaching applied mathematics at MIT. Ms. K teaches kindergarten.

     When I first began teaching twenty years ago, this is not what I imagined at all. I thought five year olds were supposed to spend their time learning about the world and each other. I pictured colored blocks and sand tables, small plastic animals and beans for counting, a tiny kitchen for creative play, books and beanbags and storytelling and writing and playacting. All designed to help young children be active learners and practice getting along with others. But this isn't part of our corporate education model. Ms. K doesn't have as much time for these things anymore. She is now required to test twenty-four children every three weeks to see if they're moving fast enough in math. This involves copying the tests, helping children understand how to fill in a bubble for their answers, and showing them the difference between top and bottom, left and right. For some, this can take the whole school year. When I ask to see the documents, she shows me a file folder an inch thick filled with formalized, computer-generated pages. These come from the data she inputs into a hand held device. She is also required to collect data from reading assessments, adjust reading groups daily, and prepare for the standardized tests administered every January.

      Another set of math assessments is done three times a year. Ms. K sits with each child for twenty to thirty minutes and orally asks a series of questions on a variety of math concepts. She writes down their answers and tracks the data. She also has to manage the remaining twenty-three five year olds who have an attention span of approximately ten minutes. At thirty minutes per child and twenty-four children, this set of assessments takes twelve hours, two hours a day for six days. When does teaching actually happen?  Data collection begins in September.

     Administrators also look at the computer pages to evaluate and analyze the numbers. Recently someone in the central administration decided the school's growth in math was not high enough. So they sent a math coach to observe the teachers, find the problem, and set the standard for academic rigor. Ms. K was coached on what words she needed to use as she taught. The coach whispered to her, in the middle of a lesson, "Now say 'how many are in each group?' Then ask, 'how would you read that graph?' " Ms. K is a thirty-five year early childhood, award winning veteran teacher. She is an expert at teaching, speaking, and listening to children. But she is being retrained for teaching from a script, where everyone's words are the same. This is a school that has been high performing on both state and standardized tests for years. Teachers had time to facilitate creativity, deep learning, critical thinking, and imagination. Why does a school that's working need more data?

     Because current thinking about school reform insists that data is the answer, that data tells the whole story about how children learn, that uniform assessments and tests are the best way to insure that teachers are effective and that schools are performing. This is an example of how schools are being run like corporations: identify the objectives and goals, accumulate data to assess achievement of those goals, and analyze the   results. I am afraid for our future.

     What's missing is understanding that children learn in unique ways, at their own pace, which is not always measurable at any given moment in time. If a child has difficulty with adding numbers in kindergarten, it doesn't mean they won't be able to do so by first grade. It doesn't mean they are at risk of failure in school. Learning takes time, but the assessments are taking up the time that Ms. K would otherwise spend in engaging children to think deeply about the world by telling and writing their own stories and plays, by counting beans, by listening to books and acting them out, by making up a number game, by singing songs, and drawing pictures, and splashing paint onto paper to illustrate a book or a math problem.

     These are the kinds of experiences that allow innovation and creative thinking to flourish. This is how curiosity is born and a love of learning and the belief in possibility and the confidence to try. I want today's kindergarten children to grow into the best members of society, which are those who can innovate and create and think for themselves. Kindergarten is when children learn to enjoy school. So, when does that training come? If we are not going to instill a love of learning and imaginative thinking in five year olds, then when will we do it? Classrooms are now boardrooms. The only thing that counts is the numbers.

     But a vital love of learning and the deep satisfaction that comes from finding out how the world works is not measured by filling in a circle to get the right answer.

     Ms. K pulls outs the answer sheets for the children who missed two questions. They filled in two spaces on those instead of one, as five years old might typically do. Ms. K knows these children are not "at risk". She says often, "These administrators have killed the art of my profession. I'm not a teacher anymore, I'm a data collector and a data analyst, and that's not the job I trained for or love."

     But if Ms. K wants to keep her job, she needs to sit at her desk awhile longer. She still has another stack of papers: data to input, reading groups to shuffle, answer sheets to print. Tomorrow she begins again, looking at data to be sure the children are learning, objective by objective.

Teachers on Fire

The paper crown looks like fire; the tiny writhing flames are captured in frozen two-inch spikes. The principal holds it in both of her hands a few inches above Ms. D's head. It is 2:00 o'clock on a Friday afternoon. Forty teachers sit hunched around me on kid-sized stools attached to low tables in the cafeteria. This space has no windows, only yellowed, fluorescent lights hanging from a cavernous ceiling. It feels like we are all in the middle of a cave. I've been invited here to present to teachers, to inspire them with creative, innovative ideas. But instead, as usual, I'm mentally adjusting how I'm going to even capture their attention and make this a useful session.
     "Let me tell you about Ms. D and why she's this month's Teacher on Fire," the principal says. Ms. D stands in front of the room, hands clasped in front of her, a Mona Lisa smile on her face. I couldn't help thinking of this as a crucifixion of sorts, the death of working as a teacher in ways that are authentic, innovative and matter to children. I knew what was coming. It had nothing to do with inspired thinking or creative lessons. For that, teachers need time and support, both of which are burned to ashes every day.

  "First of all," the principal continues, "Ms. D is here every morning at 6:30, and stays after school until the custodians kick her out, usually around 8 o'clock at night. At home, she emails parents to keep them informed of their child's progress, and if a child is absent, she calls parents at home to find out why. When I see her in the hall, she has a  perfect  line of quiet children who walk with their hands behind their backs. She's always willing to take children from another class when a teacher on her team is absent. She has perfect attendance, and her classroom is clean and inviting. Her assessment data this semester are phenomenal, and she has no parent complaints."

 Sitting on my tiny stool, I remember how much I wanted to be Ms. D, to be praised as a "great teacher". I thought if I worked long enough and hard enough I could make a difference in the lives of young children, especially those who needed it most. Here's what I know now: To be a teacher on fire is an exercise in insanity and impossibility. To hold this teacher out as an example of excellence is ridiculous. It's not about teaching at all. Like me, she gets no extra pay for her time and effort. Recognition demands unreasonable hours and the completion of a never-ending list of tasks and expectations. In order to cope, Ms. D is probably swilling a case of Dr. Pepper each week that she stashes under her desk, gulping Lean Cuisine lasagna and tater tots, processed foods low on nutrition but high in convenience, and, in the afternoons,  a Snickers bar from the vending machine.

 Now she has a paper tiara.

 Yeah, she's on fire all right. As I'm watching this I realize we are all supposed to think she is perfect. But I know she cannot work like this and have a life outside of school.

 Here is what it means to be on fire: first, her lesson plans need to be written weekly, adjusted daily, and must include learning objectives for the subjects being taught. Then, of course, there's paperwork: grading, assessments, copies, book club order forms, information to go home to parents, fund raisers, forms for picture day, forms to go in children's school files, all in alphabetical order, please. Ms. D must respond to emails, attend grade level and principal meetings each week, and schedule parent conferences, none of which should be done during instructional time. She begins her day in the early hours of the morning and doesn't stop. Since there isn't enough time during the school day, this means Ms. D must work at home in the evenings and on weekends.

   Ms. D smiles. Someone snaps a picture for the bulletin board in the front hallway, the one with the black background and fiery border that matches the crown on her head. It makes her look like she's roasting in hell. But she doesn't feel the flames. On the weekends she'll have to figure out how to diversify instruction for children with attention difficulties, emotional problems, family problems, and learning disabilities. She must give attention to all twenty-five kids in her class, but especially the ones who suffer from illness, neglect, abuse and poverty. She spends Saturday afternoons and her own money at the teacher supply store, the grocery store, and the toy store. She creates bulletin boards for student work and tries to plan when she'll have time to change the display.

 She also attends professional development after school and on Saturdays, runs a booth at the school carnival, and organizes field trips and parties. Her heart skips a beat each time a child gets a C or a D, and she never raises her voice or gets angry. She prepares the children for standardized tests, administers the tests, makes sure all the children excel on the tests, or explains why they don't, and always, always stays composed, flexible, and uncomplaining. Yes, she is a teacher on fire.

 And she's not the only one. We're all on fire. Is it just me or do others see what I see? This is a system that's broken. In five or ten years Ms. D will still be chained to at least a 60 hour work week, exhaustion, stress related illness, and a nonexistent personal life. But, she'll keep going because she believes she has to. She is afraid. Afraid she' s not good enough, afraid of making a mistake, afraid of being labeled an ineffective teacher and losing her job. All of us are afraid.

 If I could speak to Ms. D, I would tell her to stop. I would tell her that working this way is hurting her and the children. I would talk with her about her day, see what's really important, and let go of the rest. The best part of this job is creating lessons, ones that make teaching and learning a pleasure.  I would help her make a plan for a balanced life, one that gives her time for movies and plays, bicycles and gardens, dates and friends.

 It's 3:30. I've finished my presentation, gotten the teachers to create group poems and perform them. They laughed a lot, and many told me what we did felt good. Some head right for the parking lot. Some are on their phones, making plans for the afternoon. I glance down the hall to my left as I'm leaving the building, and I see a solitary figure returning to her classroom. It is Ms. D, a pile of papers in her left hand, the crown hanging loosely from her right.