The Search for the Man of Steel

I sat on the sofa and watched Waiting for Superman with my husband. I hugged a pillow against my chest to keep from pulling out my hair. Bill Gates and Michelle Rhee are superheroes, along with superintendents and principals of charter schools and university professors. I didn’t know they had the answer! I’m supposed to be relieved. They’ve identified the bad guys: teachers. And the perfect one size fits all solution: charter schools. Certainly, public education is failing most students, especially in urban areas and among minority groups. But… a few things bother me:
It's Not the Truth

1. Unions aren't the problem. But in the film, teachers can’t be fired because the unions protect their jobs through tenure and a refusal to change. Because of tenure, teachers sit around reading the paper and collecting their paychecks instead of teaching. Okay, but is this true everywhere? That’s what the film implies, but it isn’t true in my state. Unions have very little power here; there is no such thing as tenure for K-12 teachers. Firing a teacher may not always be easy: principals must do their jobs with observations and documentation of course. And teachers have a right to union representation. So what? I think the superheroes might want to talk to teachers and principals in Rockville, Maryland. They have a system in place, a collaborative effort that’s worked for the past 11 years, where teachers are given assistance as needed and a fixed amount of time to improve before they are fired. And teachers there do get fired. (The New York Times, June 6, 2011).

2. No one talks to the teachers!  Only one teacher was interviewed on camera, the National Teacher of the Year for 2005, Jason Kamras. He talked only about a teacher evaluation system for no longer than a couple of minutes. I think the point was to show how teacher evaluations as outlined in union contracts are outdated and cumbersome. But I expected someone like him to have much more to say. The rest of those who were interviewed included administrators, principals and superintendents, professors at universities, Bill Gates, and Michelle Rhee, none of whom either really understand or have experienced the real work involved in teaching children in a classroom every day. But they are superheroes. They have money or connections along with the power to influence others and make a name for themselves. God help us all if teachers talked. They were filmed teaching in charter schools or reading the newspaper or sitting with their arms crossed at union meetings. They were asked no questions. Maybe the superheroes had a momentary lapse because, they are, after all, busy saving the world. And, of course there’s only one way that can happen.

3. Not every child has a family that supports education. The children profiled were smart and deserving students who had a great deal of family support. Parents and grandparents sat with their children at the kitchen table, offering help and encouragement. What about those who don’t have that support, or have learning disabilities, or who are homeless or on drugs or pregnant or being hit or raped or starved? What if they are angry or sad, and have trouble finding adults they can trust?  What about the kids who drop out, who don’t believe school matters because they aren’t offered one thing that stimulates their interests or their curiosity? The difficulties in education are so much more complex than the film suggests. (See also Precious: Based on the Novel “Push” by Sapphire). I certainly remain hopeful that Bill Gates might try teaching for at least a week, any grade level, at any urban school. This would be interesting, no?

4. Charter schools are not miracle factories. Certainly, the schools shown in the film were impressive: clean hallways, colorful bulletin boards, strong discipline, a rigorous work ethic, and high expectations of both teachers and students. But where was the innovative teaching? In every classroom filmed (with the exception of a science experiment), the teacher talked to the whole class or to individuals, and the children listened. I did not see any demonstration of children actively engaged in their own learning: completing projects, engaged in book group discussions, using math manipulatives, sharing their work or presenting their thinking. However, there was a graph that claimed the test scores at these schools were amazing! But are test scores a reflection of what children know? The superheroes would have us believe this is so, and yet I’ve found in my experience that while skill and drill can produce great test scores, it doesn’t mean children can think and innovate and create and design. They know how to find a right answer. Is this the best we can do for children?

Lots of people go to college, but it may not be right for every child. Those who can think, those who are curious, those who know what they love, and what their gifts are will contribute far more to our society than a system that insists the sole purpose of education is to provide a corporate work force. Diversity is powerful; uniformity and sameness is the death of innovation.

The superheroes and their focus on data as a measure of school effectiveness will not save education.Teachers are not the problem, they are the solution. The man of steel eats only numbers, the modern version of kryptonite and children are the victims. Look instead for the Incredibles, the ones who do great things when they stop trying to be like everyone else and learn to be themselves.

Performing for Money

Caution Not to Be Taken

The clouds gather outside, darkening the late afternoon light. Natalie bites her apple and looks at the papers strewn across the dining room table. “I hate math,” she says to me, “I don’t see how any of this stuff is helpful, not even when I grow up.”  We’ve had this conversation before. The “stuff” she’s referring to is a series of math packets, each with a list of specific learning objectives at the top and two to four pages of multiple-choice problems. I find it difficult to argue with her. She has these packets every night for homework, but lately she finds them more troublesome than usual. She didn’t perform well on a practice test given to assess her risk of failing the state mandated math test. So now, instead of working with the rest of the class, she is in a group with other struggling students. She, along with five others, must complete test practice packets for homework, along with small group practice during the school day. The test is two months away.

“Ms. G,” she says, “I am getting a really bad headache, and I feel dizzy.” For the past three weeks, I’ve noticed she says this often in our afternoon sessions. The doctor also thinks she has acid-reflux, in addition to the daily headaches. She is eleven years old. Natalie is a gifted child, is nonwhite, and comes from an upper middle class family. She thrives when she can create and explore and use her imagination. Although she struggles in math, she does well when she can manipulate objects, play games, and draw as she’s learning new concepts. She is then able to demonstrate her knowledge on paper easily. She needs more time and practice than her classmates to master word problems and algorithms, and she works hard to learn. But the constant daily flow of worksheets frustrates her. The teaching does not take her learning style into consideration at all.

I look at her and ask how things went in math today. “Ms. S told me I’m not mastering enough objectives. She says I have to do more, and that I have to practice every day for the state test because I have to get above a 95%. I am stressed. I don’t know if I can do it. And besides, my teacher doesn’t care about me anyway. She only wants me to do well so she can get her extra money.”  

Here it is. Another example of the hidden costs to children from standardized testing. Teachers are evaluated not on best practice, but on test scores. The pressure to get the scores results in the test objectives replacing a curriculum that inspires children’s thinking and curiosity and a positive attitude toward mathematics. Teachers are offered additional money when children perform at a high level on the tests. The more the children perform, the more money the teacher gets. To perform at a high level, in the logic of this insanity, children who struggle need lots of test practice months before the actual test. No wonder Natalie feels bad.

Over twenty years ago, as a new classroom teacher, I believed that the methods I used to teach children were enough to help them meet any challenge, including tests. I studied and planned my instruction carefully, incorporating games and drama and math journals and problem solving and group investigations. I read books by Marilyn Burns and worked hard to implement her strategies and suggestions. I wanted my lessons to be meaningful for all the children, with their varying abilities and cultures and learning styles. For one project, I used construction paper and cut out oversize hands and told the children giants visited the room at night looking to eat pencil shavings and erasers. They left handprints in the mess of shavings on the floor. I gave each small group a hand and told them to estimate the size of the giant and draw him or her using bulletin board paper. Their thinking and reasoning and engagement in the process was astounding. The giants hung in the hallway outside our classroom, generating lots of looking and talk from students in other classes. Math was fun, for me and for them.

 Two weeks before the test, I taught the children test taking strategies. I did not teach the test, and the children performed well because I had taught them to think and reason and explore mathematics every day.

Now testing has replaced teaching, high scores and money are more important than authentic teaching and learning. This not only hurts teachers, it hurts children.

Natalie puts her head in her hands. “I don’t like this, Ms. G,” she says, looking at the worksheet packets beneath her elbows. I listen and nod. There isn’t much that I can say. She is quiet for a few seconds and I say, “How about we get this finished. It’s not really hard for you, and then we can work on your project.” She smiles at this and picks up a pencil. When we finish, Natalie decides to work on a math comic book she’s creating to explain algebra equations. She’s invented characters that have a mission: to save the students who live in a bland world. All these students do all day is sit at desks writing the number 1 on notebook paper. “Math should be more interesting than that,” she says, “I mean Ms. G think about it, no one can live on just turkey sandwiches and mayo. Everyone needs variety. These kids need a bus to a creative math world.”  I couldn’t agree more.

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.