The Tao of Teaching Revisited

(From notes I posted on Facebook about 7 years ago whose ideas I return to time and again.)

Lao Tzu says 

be "careful as someone crossing an iced-over stream.
Alert as a warrior in enemy territory.
Courteous as a guest.
Fluid as melting ice.
Shapable as a block of wood.
Receptive as a valley.
Clear as a glass of water.

Do you have the patience to wait
till your mud settles and the water is clear?"

I want to be careful with my students, since they are young and vulnerable. I want to be alert to all that is happening in my classroom at any moment. I want to be courteous, always using the language of respect. I want to be fluid, prepared to change as the day and needs of my students change - deliberately, not wildly. Shapable as a block of wood ... I want to be willing to change, but not without purpose. Receptive as a valley - I want to create a place where young growth can thrive. Clear as a glass of water, that learning travels through me and I don't muddy it up or get in the way. The patience to wait til the mud settles  - The perfect description of waiting for students to come to attention.

Lao Tzu says
"What is rooted is easy to nourish.
What is recent is easy to correct.
What is brittle is easy to break.
What is small is easy to scatter."

Many students are not rooted, or their roots are weak, grown in harsh soil and rough conditions. It is not easy to nourish their spirits. How can they take in lessons of community and trust, let alone lessons about math and reading, when they are not rooted?

But they are young, and therein lies the hope. The older a child gets, the harder it is to correct their learning and help them find the right path in life. What is recent is easy to correct. What has been their whole lives may be harder to correct.

What makes something brittle? If a child hasn't had what they need, their spirit may well be brittle, their feelings may be brittle. They are vulnerable, more vulnerable than I sometimes remember in the heat of the moment. They break easily, and that is not a good thing.

Children are like tiny plants or seeds. So much potential, but to grow, they need tenderness and careful attention. What is small is easy to scatter. But perhaps scattering is not what they need. 

"The Master views the parts with compassion
because he understands the whole."

The wise teacher views all the parts of a child's personality with compassion, all their quirks and challenging behaviors, because she understands the whole child, the big picture.

"The Master allows things to happen.
She shapes events as they come."

The wise teacher is flexible and allows for teachable moments. She takes advantage of unexpected and organic learning opportunities.

"She steps out of the way
and lets the Tao speak for itself."

There's nothing I can add.

A Few Thoughts on the Atlanta Testing Scandal

As you may have heard, there is a massive scandal in the Atlanta public school system involving 58 schools and 178 educators, 35 of whom have been indicted for criminal activity.  It is a scandal about cheating on the state tests.  It is chilling and sobering.  The Superintendent has been indicted, among others.

As a teacher, about to begin the process of the state tests with my third graders, I can't help reflecting on the events in Atlanta.  Cheating is wrong.  No question.  However, I know the pressures we're under to raise test scores, to meet AYP (adequate yearly progress) goals, and the constant criticisms leveled at our public schools.  I know the anxiety that builds in my gut as the state tests approach.  I know how crushing it is and how much I question my skills as a teacher, my worth as a teacher, whether I even deserve to be in the classroom, when my class does poorly.

During the past 2 years, after brutal rounds of budget cuts that left us with 10-14 fewer school days, class sizes of 35 and higher in the elementary grades, and less support staff, we were told the passing scores on the state tests had been increased.  My results were not good.  I worked hard all year to help my students learn what they needed to learn.  Then I had to watch as they struggled and failed.  And I had to pick up the pieces and encourage them after all of that.

I know what it's like to watch a struggling reader who has not qualified to take a modified version of the test, or a student who is still learning English, try their best to read a text that is way beyond them, try and try and wear themselves down, while I am forced to bear witness, and restricted in what I can say to them.  This year, the very words I can say to encourage them have been scripted for me.  As I watch a student struggle and drown, not because I have not taught them but simply because they are not there yet, it breaks my heart.  Then, while my heart is breaking, that drowning child raises their hand and tells me they don't understand what a word means.  One word.  The word "contain", for example, in the phrase "Which of these polygons does NOT contain a right angle?"  The child knows "polygon."  She knows "right angle."  But that word "contain" has stumped her.  Or the phrase "according to the passage" (a phrase I have learned to use with my third graders throughout the year because the people who write tests can't be bothered to use kid-friendly language).  That child turns to me with pleading eyes, asking for help from the adult whose job, all year, has been to provide support and scaffolding so she can learn.  And I must refuse her.  I must say "Just try your best and choose the answer you think makes the most sense."

Those of us who teach tend to be empathic people.  We tend to be helpers.  It is against our deepest nature to turn away from a child who is struggling and in pain.  But that is what we have to do during the state test.

I try to prepare my students for this reality.  When we take in-class tests, I try to create a similar environment.  I remind them that I cannot help them.  I remind them that the person who learns from the test is me, because I will learn where they still need help and  what they don't understand.  I remind them that a test is just a time to show what they know and what they need to learn.  I try to help them understand that they should do their best and take the test seriously, but they should not be anxious or worried or make too much of it.  Mixed messages?

I try to teach my students what they, as third graders, are expected to learn.  I try to help them overcome the gaps that result from poverty and language differences.  I try to give them skills to outwit the tricks of the test.

And then testing day arrives, and my role suddenly changes.  I warn them in advance that I'm required to read certain directions and that there are rules about what I can say and do during the test.  I tell them that it might seem like an alien teacher has invaded.  And then, I become a Test Administrator.  And I watch as the wheels fall off.  I watch as a student who struggles with attention begins to simply click on answers and whip through the test (In Oregon, we take the test on computer).  I can no longer tell him or her to slow down, take a break or take their time.  I watch as their video game muscle memories kick in and they click on answers the way they would click on moves in their favorite game, rushing to get to the next level, not stopping to think and problem-solve.  I bear silent witness, hands tied.

Eventually it ends.  Back in the safety of our classroom, away from the inviolate space of the testing room, I remind my students that, while I want them to do their best, the test is still nothing more than a test, one measure of their learning.  It does not measure who they are in their hearts, and that is what matters.

And then, in a staff meeting, we look at the data.  All I can see is how far I still have to go.  I find myself getting jealous and resentful of colleagues whose scores are better than mine.  Later, I sit alone in my classroom and wonder what I did wrong, what I could do better, where I failed, and I forget the very words I told my students.  I forget that I am not my test scores any more than they are.  I forget that it is just one measure of my worth as a teacher.

So as I read about the Atlanta scandal, I cannot help but pause.  Cheating is wrong.  I would never change my students answers or tell them which answer to choose.  But I'd be lying if I didn't understand, in some part of me, how so many educators found themselves going down such a wrong road.

What Going Outside My Comfort Zone Means to Me

About 5 years ago, I paddled with a dragon boat team for the first time.  I am not an athlete.  I have never been an athlete.  In fact, I was often the kid picked last in team sports.  I tried out for the swim team once and had to quit because I just couldn't keep up.  But I joined a dragon boat team, in part to bond with my fellow teachers, in part to get regular exercise.  But a big piece of me decided I should try this new thing because I was scared to do it, because it was WAY outside my comfort zone.  It was in another country entirely.  The terrified-and-full-of-negative-associations country.

I'm not good at going outside my comfort zone.  I don't do well with change.  I'm anxious in new social situations.  I struggle when things are outside my control.  So why, oh why, would I deliberately do this?  Because every day in my classroom, I am asking students to do that very thing.  I am asking kids who struggle with reading to read and kids who struggle with math to do math and kids who are terrified to speak in public to get up in front of a room of their peers and share what they think.  If I am going to ask them to commit these acts of courage, I need to remember what that means and how that feels.

I had a great time at my first dragon boat practice and it's gone on to become a true source of joy and confidence and personal growth.  But I'm still absolutely terrified of the competitive part.  When we begin getting ready for a race, fear and anxiety grip me in intensely physical ways.  My heart races.  I have trouble breathing.  The moisture leaves my mouth and my muscles turn to jelly.

In that moment, I think of my students.  I think of a student I'm worried about.  I think of a student who faces that kind of fear when they sit down with a book or they have to take a test.  I think of the student for whom getting up and going into the world is an act of courage.  Or the student who battles to control anger or wild emotions.  Or the one who is miraculously able to giggle and to learn in spite of the worst possible realities awaiting them at home. And I tell myself, if that student can come to school and learn and try and laugh, then I can face this race and put my paddle in the water and keep paddling.

Then, the race becomes a kind of prayer.  It's my spirit declaring to that kid's spirit that I believe in their courage and it inspires me.  Every stroke of my paddle becomes a reminder that if I will ask my students to brave the country beyond the comfort zone, I must be willing to go there myself.  It is a declaration of my faith in determination, perseverance and resiliency.