Million Dollar Teacher

How thrilled was I to hear the news today that Nancie Atwell, my teaching idol, won the so-called "Nobel Prize" of teaching, the one million dollar Varkey Foundation Global Teacher Prize?

Very!

This year was the first for awarding what the foundation promises to be an annual honor for worthy teachers across the globe, and in my opinion, they couldn't have chosen a more deserving inaugural recipient. I have written a lot about Atwell in this blog over the years, including a reflection on the week my friend Leah and I spent with her in the teacher intern program at her school in Maine, and another on a workshop our school's whole English department attended.

I encourage you to click on the tag below to revisit a few of those posts.

A Rope of Sand

I had the fortune to spend the day with one of my teaching idols today. Nancie Atwell was giving a workshop a few miles from my home. When I first received the flyer back in January, I asked and received permission from our principal to offer the opportunity to any teacher in our department who was interested. We hoped that it might be a unifying experience for a group of well-intentioned educators with rather disparate approaches to teaching writing.

What makes Atwell so impressive is that she is clear-minded about her underlying principles and yet pragmatic in the application of them. Her writing lessons evolve year by year, as do the details of their delivery and execution, but her framework remains true to the student-centered approach she introduced in 1987 in her seminal work In the Middle. She remains steadfast in the face of education trends that ultimately undermine our objective to foster literate, thoughtful, independent-minded citizens.

This is the third time that I've heard her in person, and each time I feel that my teaching has grown a little closer to the standard she holds up, but each time I am also struck by how some of my core convictions have been eroded by outside pressures. I guess that I was hoping if I could get my colleagues on board, we could work together and support each other to stay as true to our ideals as Atwell does.

I wish I could say that the day was a magical panacea which cured us of all of our departmental dysfunction, but I'm afraid that's not true. I do believe that many minds were opened to the possibilities of the workshop approach, though, and so we'll move [forward?] from there.

I Asked For It

My students are writing fiction and over the last couple of days they have been experimenting with techniques to develop their characters. As a starting point, we use a list of strategies from Nancie Atwell's Lessons That Change Writers. She suggests Reflection, Dialog, Letters and Journal Entries, Action, Reaction, Other Characters, Quirks, Setting, and Beloved Object as ways to reveal important details about the character to your reader.

As a mini-lesson, I gave the students three short paragraphs from a fiction piece that I am working on and asked them to identify the strategies I had used to help develop the two characters.

Here's the passage:

It was his grandfather who had taught Ned to ride a bike. One evening after dinner when the sky was that watery blue-before-pink, and Ned could tell that his grandfather was tired— he had been working at the waterfront all day— they went out to the quiet side street and up the gentle hill a little ways from his grandparents’ house.

He loved his grandfather and trusted, him, too, but Ned was scared and put his feet down every time. It was so hard to believe that he and his new blue bike could defy gravity and avoid the hard, cold pavement. “Have faith in yourself, Neddy!” his grandfather told him. “Falling and flying are shipmates. Embrace the sweet fall forward.”

When the fireflies came out, there was only time for one more run. The armpits of his grandfather’s shirt were wet, and the old man was breathing hard, and Ned felt that huge, steady hand on his back pulling away like the gangway from a clipper, and this time he wobbled but stayed upright, finally underway, with a fresh breeze at his back. That night, as he rode away from his grandfather who had eased to a stop and was clapping and laughing in his wake, Ned caught a balance he felt that he would never lose.

The number one comment? The grandfather should use more deodorant.

What She Said

I received a fund-raising letter over the weekend from Nancie Atwell in support of her demonstration school, The Center for Teaching and Learning. One particular paragraph stood out to me:

While today's neo-reformers tout accountability as the goal of education and seek to measure and judge teachers based on student scores on context-stripped standardized tests, CTL teachers hold ourselves accountable-- to students, their parents, and our own standards as professional educators. Our methods for assessing and reporting student growth across the disciplines are time-consuming, individualized, and specific. Grown-ups-- and students-- understand what a child has accomplished, along with the goals he or she needs to tackle next. All parents want teachers who know their sons and daughters as learners, not percentiles.

Yeah.

Alert!

I've had a couple of authors comment on this blog after I mentioned them and their books by name. In both cases I was completely thrilled that these posts I send out into the Universe with perhaps equal parts faith and vanity found not only a reader beyond my immediate family and friends, but also another writer with whose work I had connected.

I suspect that the fine hand of Google Alerts or a similar tool is behind their readership, but that does not lessen the experience for me. I have a couple of alerts of my own out there. One is for Nancie Atwell; I believe she's a bellwether for the state of language arts instruction, and I want to know what people are saying about her theories and practice. Over the last couple of years this alert has led me to some very interesting teacher-written blogs.

The other is for the Barbara Jordan school in Detroit. Early last summer I read that this school was being taken over by a committee of teachers and I've tried to follow their progress, because another of my beliefs is that for schools to be most effective, everyone in charge should teach at least one class (including central office).

After my last close encounter with an author I decided to double my Google Alerts. In addition to those two, my new settings include my own name, first and last, which I never expect to be mentioned, and the name of this blog, Walking the Dog, from which I expect to get several unrelated hits every day. I think it will be amusing, at least for a while, and especially if today is any indication-- I've already found a theme song: Walking the Dog by Fun.

Or not.

Story Time

I'm not sure what it is with kids and fiction, but my students are writing short stories right now, and they couldn't be happier.  Composing fiction is not mentioned specifically in either my state writing standards or in the draft of the new National Standards that was released today, although both include objectives addressing kids writing narratives, and of course that includes fiction.

I've found that many middle school teachers hesitate to include fiction assignments in their writing programs; I used to be one of them. I guess it didn't seem quite rigorous enough to me, either that or it could be that such assignments usually produced such sprawling tales teeming with ill-defined characters who wandered about without ever resolving anything that I had no idea what to do with them.

In her foreword to Ted DeMille's book, Making Believe on Paper, Nancie Atwell recounts a conversation she had with the educational researcher Nancy Martin on this very topic. Like many of us, Atwell was explaining why she didn't teach fiction, despite the fact that it is what most kids love to read best. She considered her students' fiction "daydreams on paper."

But Atwell tells how Nancy Martin convinced her otherwise. In Martin's opinion, fiction gives young writers the chance to compose fluently and at length. Martin also makes the point that fiction "gives children access to the hypothetical" so that "they can begin to see how to improvise on their own experiences." She understood children's stories to be fables where they reimagine their lives and mix them with the stories they've read or heard.

That is an accurate description of what my students do with their fiction, although they are influenced also by the stories they see on TV and, more and more, in games. Humans have always used storytelling to make meaning of our lives, and I think it's important to give kids the opportunity and the tools to do that. More importantly, though, writing fiction is motivating to my students: with few exceptions, they write cheerfully and at length. For that I'm glad, because I can't teach writing craft, conventions, or skills to someone who won't write.

Another Snow Day

The storm yesterday reminded me of another snowstorm a couple of years ago. In January of 2008, I traveled with a friend and colleague to Maine to spend a week observing at Nancie Atwell's school, The Center for Teaching and Learning. We arrived in Edgecomb on Sunday night, just ahead of a major Nor'easter, but we weren't concerned. My friend had had the foresight to rent a four wheel drive vehicle, and plus, this was Maine, we shrugged, surely they knew how to handle whatever snow there would be.

The next morning my cell phone rang. "This is Nancie Atwell," the voice on the line said. "Is this Tracey?" After getting over the initial shock of actually having Nancie Atwell herself call me, I realized that she was telling me that school was canceled that day because of the weather. She arranged to meet us for a couple of hours that morning anyway to go over the rest of the week. I couldn't decide if I was disappointed, relieved, or exultant... the joy of a Snow Day is a powerful thing.

At 10 AM when we left CTL, after having met Nancie and seen her school, the snow was falling fast. Faced with an unexpected free day, we set off in the storm in search of a late breakfast. The roads were terrible, but my friend navigated them admirably, and before too long we found ourselves on a nearly deserted Main Street in Damariscotta. A restaurant called The Breakfast Place seemed just right, and we parked in front and made our way inside. A cheerful group of rather grizzly Mainers was leaving as we came in, and those gentleman gave us a thumbs up as they passed.

Inside, we were the only customers, and the waitress led us to a table in the back that looked out over the water. Lobster boats bobbed on anchor buoys in the snow. I ordered a poached egg and crab cake on a homemade English muffin with coffee. There were Trivial Pursuit cards on the table, and we took turns quizzing each other until our breakfast arrived. The food was good, and our conversation wandered to books; my friend recounted the entire plot of Walk Two Moons right up until the end. There she paused. "Do you want to know what happens?" she asked, and I nodded, completely charmed by the story, by the setting, by the food, and by the company.

Back at our hotel, we spent the rest of our day talking about Atwell and her school and about teaching and teaching writing as the snow piled up and up. I didn't feel trapped at all-- the promise of the week ahead seemed as boundless as the expanse of drifts outside the sliding glass door and as long as the icicles that formed drip by drip on the overhang that sheltered it. And it was a good week, a great week, really, but in the end, my favorite part of it was the snow day.

That's the Plan, Anyway

Today was the first day back at school after over two weeks away, and my students seemed dreamy and out of it. We talked a little about books we'd read and things we'd done over break, and then I gave them a copy of Nancie Atwell's Questions for Memoirists: nineteen questions designed to provoke a list of possible memoir topics. I let them talk about their ideas first, casually sharing anecdotes and details that came to mind as they read over the list. That got them a little more animated, and there was even a bit of a din in the room as they free-associated their way through the list. Then they were to choose memory and do a seven-minute free write on it. No one shared any writing today, but I asked everyone to take it home and spend another ten minutes on it.

This year, I'm trying the "studio workshop approach" to memoir that Kirby and Kirby describe in their book New Directions in Teaching Memoir. I like their construct of writing workshop as a studio classroom where instructors demonstrate techniques and ideas, work on pieces of their own, quietly visit students at work, and offer suggestions. I also like their approach to process, using short exercises to gather material, kind of the way an artist might do studies for a portrait. They call these short writings "explorations" or "spider pieces". They teach their students to examine them for connections, images, and memories that stand out, and then they use some of them as anchors, weaving their memoirs around them.

The Kirbys use models as well, excerpts from published memoirs that illustrate a specific topic or technique, to help students explore them in their own writing and thinking. My plan is to spend the next couple of weeks with the students examining models and working on short little spider pieces, starting with what they wrote today. Once they have a collection of material, we'll work from there to create a finished product.

Maybe It's the Moon

Despite the fact that my PLC folks didn't seem to have a lot of appreciation for edublogs, I do. I'm not ashamed to admit that I find them helpful and even inspirational at times. For example, two of the bloggers I read regularly seem to be struggling with some of the same things that I am right now, and they have both defined the issues and expressed their concerns much better than I have. I invite you to take a look.

Pressing On by Ruth at Two Writing Teachers

Stop Questioning? by Dina on Reading Free

(The second one is a really cool blog. Allow me to cite their "About Us" entry: He’s in his twenty-seventh year of teaching language arts; she’s in her third. He teaches 6th grade in a self-contained classroom in the Alaska interior; she teaches 7th grade in a rotating class middle school in an urban hub of upstate New York. What brings them together: the simultaneous launching of the workshop approach to reading and writing in their classrooms, pioneered by Nancie Atwell.

Doug Noon and Dina Strasser both blog about their teaching experiences and met through the wild and crazy interlinking of the edublogosphere. Now, they join forces to explore one of the most promising and status-quo-busting approaches to literacy available today. )

Now THAT's what I'm talking about.

Keep it Short

Sometimes I wonder if I ask too much of my students. I understand the value of high expectations, and I'm not proposing a lower bar for quality, but rather for quantity. I believe that if we shorten what we ask for, but demand that the product be well-considered, well-written, and well-edited, then we are helping the students and ourselves.

I'm still working out the details, but it all started with Nancie Atwell's proposition that examining and composing free verse poetry can teach almost any writing lesson, and as a result, over the past few years, I've developed a fondness for the "micro assignment." I've decided that I want my students to write briefly, but exquisitely. Kind of like the writing equivalent of an amuse-bouche-- in the cooking world, it's widely believed that if you can execute that one perfect bite, you're golden.

Where They're From

My students are wrapping up an activity in which they use George Ella Lyon's poem, Where I'm From as a model for a free verse poem of their own. This is an activity that Nancie Atwell outlines in her book Naming the World. Her students developed a questionnaire which they used to interview their parents and grandparents to gather material for their poems, and we use a version of that, too.

Ours is a chart that has space for the answers to 12 questions in four columns. One for mother, one for father, one for grandparent, and one for other. One of our students has two dads, so before I gave the sheet out this year, I changed the first two columns to "parent." The questions are about nicknames and birthplaces, toys, games and hobbies, favorite books, candy, TV shows, and singers, hip expressions, heroes and hoped for careers.

We have several adopted and foster kids on the team this year, and many of our students and/or their parents were born in countries other than the United States. It was difficult for some kids to gather much information about the lives of the people in their family. It was also challenging for them to fit some of the non-traditional details of their lives into the template based on Lyon's poem. We talked our way through it, though, and everyone wrote a poem of which they were very proud.

We have one student, who was born in India and adopted into a family with a brother from Vietnam and a sister from Guatemala. Her mom e-mailed this morning to say how touched their family was by the poem. Her daughter wrote, in part:

I am from black shoes,
from Razzles and Legos.
I am from the crowded streets of India,
hot and noisy...

I am from watching American Idol
and arguing about the results.
I am from jocks and book worms,
from "Stop talking!" and "Do your homework!"

... from the love of my parents
when they tuck me in at night,
the funniness of my brother,
and the grumpiness of my sister.
I am from the wooden box in my parents' room
filled with pictures,
and all the things in my family
that make us who we are.

What can I say? It's a great assignment. They were all that sweet.

10,000 Hours

What English teacher has not received a link to Nancie Atwell's video-recorded response to the NY Times article of August 30 about reading workshop? Either forwarded directly by a colleague, mentioned in a professional e-newsletter, or referenced in an edu-blog, the video has gone what passes for viral in our little online community.

I confess that I have watched it twice already. I'm all about Atwell-- plus, I've been to her school, and I've actually seen those bookcases behind her. (An aside... take a look at the cover of the second edition of In the Middle. Mm hmm... same white book shelves, just filled with quality literature.) Nancie makes a great argument on the video; her reasoning is clear and reassuring, and it will resonate with anyone who's struggled to create an effective language arts program lately. We're lucky to have her as such a rational voice for our profession.

Beyond her defense of "the audacity of kids choosing their own reading," it's her Malcolm Gladwell reference that I've been pondering today. In Outliers, he posits that to really achieve mastery of something, it takes 10,000 hours of practice. Atwell, of course, mentioned it in terms of reading fluency, but I got to thinking about teaching. The basic calculation for teaching time is 7.5 hours a day at 180 days per year. At that rate, with no absences, you can put in your 10,000 hours in about seven and a half years.

Teaching is a complex task, though, and so, with that in mind, I tried to break my time down into student contact hours, meeting hours, and planning and professional development hours. When I look at the numbers that way, I figure I probably hit 10,000 instructional hours sometime at the end of last year, my sixteenth. Mastery? Expertise? Maybe a little.

I have a feeling that Gladwell was referring to more than simply logging your hours at a given task. Diligence alone is not enough; passion and engagement are reliable indicators of the quality of one's practice. As teachers we know this to be true of our students and ourselves; after all, there's more to Nancie Atwell than just 10,000 hours.

Leave Them Kids Alone

When you teach the same lesson five times in a row, it's bound to evolve, and there's nothing wrong with that; although sometimes I feel a little guilty that my first period class is the perennial trial run. That happened today.

We read our first common text of the year. Because my students select their reading for English themselves, we start most classes by reading a very short text together, usually a poem. I use the approach that Nancie Atwell describes in her book, Naming the World: A Year of Poems and Lessons. Like Atwell, I have found that almost any writing lesson can be illustrated with a poem.

If I err in planning and executing these bite-sized literature lessons, it is in the amount of participation I allow myself in the discussion. I am well-credentialed and opinionated when it comes to literature, and sometimes it just seems like it would be easier and faster if I tell the students what they should get out of the text, especially if they are quiet or tentative. I know that's not so, and I'm always happy when I get concrete proof, like I did today.

I asked the first group to box the verbs and highlight something they noticed about the text, and I had a question prepared to extend the conversation. The kids started slow and sleepy, understandably so-- it was early, and they've only known me and each other for two days. We had a decent discussion, though, and at the end of the lesson I asked them, as I always do, to rate the poem on a scale of 1-10 and tell us what they gave it and why. First period gave it solid sevens with a few outliers-- not such a ringing endorsement.

The verb activity wasn't going the way I wanted it to, so I dropped it for the next class, and asked them to do the highlighting and prepare their answer to my question in advance. Again, 7-8 rating for the poem. For the next class, I asked them to highlight two things and write a question for the group themselves. Big improvement, the quality of the conversation was a lot higher: I was much less involved in extending and re-directing the comments; they made great connections between the text and other texts and their own experiences; they proposed interpretations to each other and worked them through.

All of my classes are heterogeneously grouped, so it wasn't the ability of the kids. The same thing happened in the next classes. AND, all three groups rated the poem consistently higher than the first two. One student actually said, "At first I didn't think much of it, but after we figured it all out, I really liked it," and she held up the page with a big purple 10! written at the top.

What They're Reading in Edgecomb

Who could miss the big article on the front page of the NY Times this morning about reading workshop? The piece profiles a teacher from Georgia who spends a week with Nancie Atwell at her school in Maine. (Full disclosure: I did that too!) Afterwards, she goes back home and reorganizes her reading program, basing it on student-selected texts. The reporter, Motoko Rich, summarizes the rationale behind the reading workshop, and she gives a round-up of several schools and systems that are using it, either in whole or in part, in order to motivate their students to read more and more thoughtfully.

I use a reading workshop in my sixth grade English class, and I have since I started teaching in 1993. Atwell's In the Middle was a required text in my graduate program, and her argument for engaging student agency resonated with me from the first. I wanted my class to be like hers: a place where kids really cared about what they were reading and writing and actively worked to improve their literacy skills and knowledge because it was important to them. Choice and accountability within a predictable structure are the keys to creating such a dynamic climate. Sixteen years later, I find it's still an ongoing process, which only makes sense, right?

Anyway. Like the Memphis article I posted about a few days ago, the comments on this one are fascinating to read, especially those written by non-educators. Many people are against such an approach on the grounds that we can't trust kids to choose quality literature. In their minds, it is the teacher's job to coerce and motivate kids to read texts of value. I must say I appreciate Ms. Rich's thoughtful and well-reasoned responses to several of these comments. She does an excellent job clarifying and extending the discussion while addressing the questions and concerns raised.

AND it's kind of cool that this conversation is happening in such a high profile place.

Porch Time

We bought a couple of Adirondack chairs for our deck today. I use the term "deck" loosely-- it's really much more of a balcony, but the architects that designed the place labeled it a deck, and what can I say? That grandiosity has legs. We used to have a table and chairs, and while it was nice to eat out there a few evenings a year, there really wasn't enough room for anything else, and so our limited outdoor space went mostly unused. We decided to give the table and chairs away, and since then, the deck has been like a blank canvas just waiting for the right vision. Today we found it. Every summer, we take my nephews to Maine for a week. The place we rent is an old fisherman's house right on Eastern Bay across from Mount Desert Island. It has a porch that wraps around three sides in the back. There must be eight Adirondack chairs all lined up looking out over that half-acre lawn down to the mussel beach, across the bay, and right up to Sargent Mountain, the second highest peak in Acadia National Park. I have the same view from the bed I sleep in each year, and I can't help thinking that it wouldn't be a bad place to draw your last breath, provided that the windows were open, and the morning marine mist had burnt off, and the sun, or at least the moon, was shining on the mountain across the way. Every day when we're there we have porch time. In the beginning it was Aunt Tracey declaring forced togetherness: join me on the porch boys; you won't regret it, but if you do, please keep it to yourself. For less than an hour we would all sit on those chairs and read, or draw, or play guitar, or write, or, okay, Josh was allowed to pound wiffle balls into the yard, but that was his way of communing with himself and the place and the rest of us, which was all I wanted, and what made the whole trip worth it. It wasn't long, though, before I'd take my notebook and some coffee out there and through the screen I'd hear one of the boys ask another, "Is it porch time?" and the Adirondack chairs would fill. Back home, I missed porch time, and last year the end of vacation coincided with my desire to re-introduce a common "circle time" at the beginning of most classes to my sixth graders. Nancie Atwell famously has a rocking chair, and I wanted something like that in my classroom, too, so when I walked into World Market and saw their Adirondack chairs on clearance, I knew what I should do. We don't call it porch time in my class, but it's as close as I can manage inside four walls, miles from any ocean or mountain. It's a time and place to share our reading, writing, and thoughts, and I think it goes a long way toward building community with my students, and to be honest, there are times when the view from that chair is just as breath-taking or more so than the one from that porch in Maine.

SOLSC Day 9

A year ago last January, I did an internship at Nancie Atwell's school, The Center for Teaching and Learning, in Edgecomb, Maine. Despite a big nor'easter snow storm that canceled school on the first day, it was one of the top professional development experiences of my career (the other one was the Northern Virginia Writing Project summer institute). I've always been drawn to the workshop approach to teaching reading and writing, and I've always used some form of it in my 6th grade English class, so having the opportunity to spend a week at Atwell's school was inspirational.

I hoped to come away with a much more practical understanding of how to implement an Atwell-style workshop in my class, and I was not disappointed, but an unexpected benefit of the week was in how they structured the internship for us. A couple of months before going, we received a reading packet that gave us an overview of the philosophy and program of the school. Once on site at CTL, our role was to observe and take notes on Nancie and Glenn Powers, the grade 5-6 teacher, at work with their students. At the end of each day, we spent 45 minutes with them going over what we saw and heard and asking any questions we had.

By the second day, I realized what a powerful professional development model this was. Why don't more school systems do this? A master teacher provides a general explanation of and the research behind a particular teaching technique, unit, or activity; other teachers actually come into the classroom to see it implemented, making observations and taking notes, and then time is set aside at the end to debrief. Later on, there would be follow-up support for teachers as they implemented the ideas and strategies in their own classrooms.

Or, I guess we could just go with another powerpoint presentation.