Pictures

We are in every school. You jostle past us, brush against us on your way to class, to the staff room, to the gym.  We are heroes and villains, champions and participants, stars and stage hands unnoticed in frames.

We wear dated uniforms and glasses too big for our faces.  Our hairstyles are out of the times but we grin, soaked in sweat from a victory that has always just happened.  Do you see us?  We played hard like you do. We gave everything to coaching just like you do.

We are in graduation composites; vice principals and principals looking stern and officious in the centre. Row upon row of us look out from the walls as you make your way to lunch or the library.  We line this great hall, legions of us, watching to see that you carry on what we started.

We are the band pictures.  We have music teacher faces, pinched in permanent winces from hearing songs in the wrong key.  We are drama pictures and if you look at the back, you can see the drama teacher poking her head out from behind the curtain as we take roses and final bows.  Lean in and listen to the applause that is still ringing.

And now I am here, only in these pictures.  Schools do not lend themselves to long term memory.  It will only be a semester or two after I am gone and I will be forgotten.  True, there will be a teacher or a colleague who will remember but really only a few pictures on a wall will remain.

It is a strange thing to imagine yourself as only a photo on a wall.  Generations of students and teachers will walk by me and I will not be able to wave or call out.  I won't be able to point to what I did here or what others did for me or what we did together.

Maybe you will stop on your way.  Maybe on your way to parent night or in the quiet of the hall on your longest day.  Maybe you will stop after a game or a performance and see the beauty you are creating. If you stop and see us behind the glass of these frames we will see you. We cheer you on, encourage you in the most important work in the world.

I hope you stop and see me.  Lean in close and listen too.  You are becoming part of a larger picture. You are building citizens, you are building a community, a country, a democracy.  You are part of something beautiful and profound.  Just promise, on the rare occasion, that you will stop and give a wink to those of us behind the glass.

Dad

They're going to throw the books out.  I suppose I can't blame them.  I was the only one to use them and after I leave they will just be taking up shelf space.

Robert' Bolt's A Man for All Seasons has seen its time in the sun.  I enjoyed teaching the play but it's time to say goodbye like so many things I've been saying goodbye to this past week.  Perhaps its central conflict, a man trying to be true to himself, when the forces of church and state are pulling at his cloak, is unreachable for today's audiences.  I hope that is not the case but it may be.

If I assigned you to write an essay on the play's lead character, Thomas More, you'd discuss More's commitment to family, to faith, to intellect and to his country.  You'd make the argument that More was able to excel in any venue: public institution, private life, church.  You'd conclude with the argument that More was at home with Kings and Common Men but preferred the Common to the royal.

I'm sure I would be stunned with your literary brilliance and give you an 'A'.

I like the play for all the reasons you listed in your essay but I really stuck with the play for so long, not because of its literary merit but because it always reminds me of my Dad.

If you had him as a teacher or as a principal, you knew of his intensity and felt his simmering power. You knew that this was not a man to cross.  Age has softened some of these characteristics but the clarity of thought, the principled approach to life have not faded.

He is quite capable of being at home with Kings but has always found more joy in the Common Man. He has always placed his family at the centre of his life and has a deep, private faith in God.  His love of country literally brings him to tears. He has faced times in his life where he had to adhere to his own principles when forces wanted him to bend to their wills.  He did not choose these battles but never shrunk from them.  Most impressively, like More, he has remained silent about them.

One of my favorite scenes in the play and one that most reminds me of Dad is where More exhorts a character "Be a teacher" he says and when the character asks who will know if you are a good teacher, More replies "your students, your friends, your family, your God.  Not a bad audience that."

Literary characters give us comfort because, as Northrop Frye says, they remain like "Giants in Time." They are a constant in our lives, teaching us what to avoid, what to move towards and how to live.

I've been most fortunate to have giants at school and one at home.

Regrets, I've had a few...

Unlike Sinatra, I have enough regrets to mention:

1)  In my first years of teaching, I wasn't straight up with parents.  I was slightly intimidated by parents and as a result, didn't deliver some of the news about their son or daughter that they deserved to hear. I've corrected this error in the latter half of my career and I hope my older colleagues at the time delivered the news I couldn't.

2)  To the girls basketball team that gave me a George Michael poster and an Alf key chain as a coaching gift; I am sorry if I did not seem suitably appreciative at the time.

3)  I said and did some things on high school basketball courts that I am not too proud of.  I lost my temper too many times and my language turned blue as well.  I forgot to play some kids and benched some who didn't deserve it because I wanted to win.  I was not very friendly to the opposing coach. Sometimes I let my ego get in the way and when I did, I made the game more about me than the kids.

4)  I took the support staff at the school for granted.  I'm sure I'm not alone here. At times in my career I didn't recognize just how important the secretaries, the custodians, the educational assistance and the child and youth workers are to the education of our children.   I've tried to be better at acknowledging their contributions but I regret that I was late to this in my career.

5)  I shouldn't have worn the rollerblades in class.

6)  There was a time in the late '90's that I was pretty bitter about how my profession was treated by the government of the day.  I let that government affect my attitude toward parents, some of my colleagues, certainly my administrator at the time and my community.  If it hadn't been for the kindness of many of those people over the years, I could have remained bitter.

7)  It turns out, I spent way too much time marking and not enough time speaking to students about their work.  Kids rarely read comments but when you sit with them and talk to them about their work and what you honestly think about that work, you make a difference.  If I had to do it again, I'd mark everything in front of the kid.

8)  I had no idea about LGBTQ, about privilege and little about racism when I started.  If I only knew then what I know now, I'd be a lot more sensitive to the people I taught and with whom I worked.

9) Dante, I didn't know Peter lit your hair on fire in class.  I regret this.

10)  I didn't give my wife enough credit.  Christine is funnier and smarter than I am and she has always tempered my reactions to things and as a result, she's made me a far better teacher.

Thoughts from atop an AV cart.

How I got on top of the AV cart on the third floor of my school is largely irrelevant.  It's really about the why.  The fact that I had the cart, that it was fourth period on a lovely June day and that the hall was relatively empty was simply fortuitous.  All that was required was that I lean on the cart, take two or three good pushes with my right leg and hop right on up.  I may have yelled a little "yippeee"  as I cruised by the open doors of the classrooms of the third floor and really only came close to hitting one unfortunate student who was making her way to the bathroom in the general vicinity of my now AV scooter.

Now, to the why.  You, my faithful reader of these past few months, may be correct in your speculation as to why I was riding an AV cart.  If you guessed that I was overcome with the sheer joy of June, you would be partially right.  Some of you, who read my blog out of a sense of duty because you work with me or you're married to me, may think I was riding the cart, because I have fewer than four weeks left to work and could not contain myself.  You would be close to correct.  And those of you who have read through these blogs, hoping that I can make some sense of public education for you, may speculate that I was perched atop the cart as a symbol of my defiance to a system run amok.  You too would have some claim to being right.

But if I am being completely honest, and what else is a blog for other than to be honest and self-centred at the same time, I really didn't know why I was on top of that AV cart until I listened to a seminar from one of my students shortly after riding into the classroom on said cart.

In her seminar on the novel No Great Mischief, the student pointed to the fact that the fulfilled characters in the novel feel a sense of mastery of their work and a sense of community and meaning from it.  I think that I have been lucky to feel a great sense of community and meaning in my work and maybe, I will let my students decide, a certain amount of mastery.

In No Great Mischief, the matriarch of the MacDonald family asks her grandson, "Do you sing at work? We use to sing at work."  He is unfulfilled and replies "no".

If asked the same question I would reply "no" as well but I might add "have you ever ridden an AV cart?"

Jesus leads a field trip

"So, Jesus, I understand you want to take your class skating.  Correct?"

"Yes sir, just up the street to the outdoor rink.  A little time outside I think would do them a world of good."

"And your assistant?  Who's going to lead this trip with you Jesus?"

"Well, ah, I was going to take Peter, sir".

"Peter?  Peter?  You know you can't rely on him, Jesus.  Remember the last trip?  He left you alone before noon.  I don't know about your judgement sometimes, Jesus."

"Yes, sir.  I just want to take the kids skating sir."

"Look Jesus, you probably think I am a bit of jerk, but Jesus, I have to take into consideration the risks to the kids, the risks to the Board and of course, I mean, have you thought of the risk to me?  Ok, Jesus, let's review the documentation for this skating trip.  Did you get my email?"

"Yes sir, I filled it out the best I could. It's six pages long.  I don't know if this is a level II or level IIa excursion"

"Jesus, everyone knows it's a level II.  Come on Jesus.  IIa's are trips to animal viewings and fire stations.  Now, let's see.  Things seem to be in order here.  Wait, wait a minute.  Jesus, you don't have any first aid qualifications.  What if someone got hurt?  What if a kid got his ear cut off?  Come on Jesus.  You have to have first aid."

"But sir..."

"And Jesus, are you a certified skating coach or have any of your skating or skate excursion levels?"

"No sir...I have some experience taking people on trips on water."

"Jesus, that doesn't count.  Jesus, what will you do about hydrating the children?  You didn't fill in bullet point 38 on hydration.  See, it says right here:  provide detailed hydration plan for students."

"Sir, we're going for an hour.  I don't see how hydration is relevant."

"Are you getting sassy Jesus?  Eh, Jesus?"

"No sir.  I will fill out bullet point 38, sir.  Does everything look good to go sir?

"Ok Jesus, I am going to send this off to the Superintendent of Education for his approval and we will get back to you.  Give it six weeks, Jesus."

"Ah, sir.  It's end of March, the ice will be melted by then.  Is there any way we could speed this up? The kids really want to go skating."

"Forgive me Jesus, but poor planning on your part...."

"Does not constitute an emergency on my part, yes sir, I've heard that one."

"Jesus, I'm not a miracle worker."

"Thank you sir.  I've changed my mind.  I think we'll just watch a movie on skating.  Happy Easter, sir."

Thomas

To the untrained eye the scene looks like teenage boys playing soccer on the first spring day of the year.  It is warm and the sun bathes them in a light on the tarmac of our parking lot like something out of a romantic painting.  The sun places the boys in relief.  I can see the details of each.  I can see glasses and unkempt hair and that sheen of sweat that develops as they play an organized unorganized game of soccer on their lunch in the spring before classes resume.

He is standing in goal, yelling at his "teammates" to get the ball.  You think he is no different than the other boys but I see what you cannot see.  I see what you have done.

He arrives with no credits even though he should be halfway through his high school career.  A family friend has taken him in and serves as his guardian.  I imagine that guardian is not very much different from you.   The guardian clothes him, feeds him, shelters him.  You would do the same, as a matter of fact, many times you have done the same through your generosity to charities. Most importantly and stunning to me, is when the boy gets his first report card, the guardian writes a note back to me,  outlining the goals for the boy in the next few weeks.

He barely speaks as he enters the classroom, barely looks at me.  Over the semester he improves.  He never misses a day; keeps his head down and works.  Towards the end of our time together, he writes an essay about his former life.  It is everything I can do to not put my arm around him.  You gave me a chance to teach him in a small class.  You provided a place for him to recover some of the things he lost.

He takes steps forward, he moves some steps back.  I see the boy over the next year and half in the hallways.  He is sometimes by himself but we make sure he is never alone.  He fails some courses but seems to dust himself off each time.  He keeps at it, keeps working.  His guardian keeps an eye.  His teachers take special care to build him up.  You funded his counselor and his special classes and you allowed the system time to do its work.

I see him on this beautiful spring day playing soccer with a group of friends.  He will leave us soon, graduating and moving on to challenges, to a world of growing opportunity.  All of us should be proud of his accomplishments.  You should be so pleased about your support. You, as a citizen, have saved this young man and you did it because you believe that everyone plays a role in supporting public education.  You will be rewarded with an educated young man who will one day be your neighbour, your friend.

And I, I will miss a spring soccer game in the sunshine.

If every kid had a Suzanne

If everyone had a Suzanne Kelley in their corner things would be better.

Every kid would feel they could do it.  Oh, sure, some doubt would enter their heads but they'd have Suzanne there telling them "you can do that."  There'd be a caveat or two.  She won't back the plan to play for the Harlem Globetrotters.  It may be harsh but it will remain sage advice.

If every kid had a Suzanne Kelley, they'd know what it is to be thoughtful and progressive.  They'd be exposed to the conservative idea that you better work hard for what you want but they'd see that many need help. The kid would learn how important it is to help others and would also carry the expectation that you can do it yourself.

If everyone had a Suzanne, they'd see the merit in decriminalizing marijuana (she's held this view for awhile, at least since her 90th birthday) and they would see how important it is that all of us live, work and learn with people with special needs since she worked with these people early in her career as a physiotherapist.

If every kid had a Suzanne they'd learn to be patriotic but not nationalistic.  They'd have that quiet pride in their country, particularly after seeing that Suzanne served as an officer in the RAF during WWII.  The kid would learn from Suzanne not to brag about stuff like that because others sacrificed a great deal more than her.  They'd learn it's better to do something than talk about it.  They'd learn to be Canadian.

They'd admire Americans too.  Perhaps not the current administration but they'd know that Americans have come to the rescue of the world a couple of times and that, despite their failings, they are an incredibly resilient people.  They'd be able to see beyond the current state of affairs in all things.

If everyone had a Suzanne in their corner, they'd be resilient too.  Suzanne would not allow them to quit.  If they started something, Suzanne would make them finish it.  There's no quitting.  They'd be encouraged to keep going and they wouldn't be allowed to blame someone else if things weren't going their way.  They'd have a sympathetic ear, they could cry, but after that was done, they'd get back up and try again because Suzanne would expect it.  They'd be resilient because she is.

If every kid had a Suzanne they'd learn they're important but not the center.   She wouldn't brag about them. Suzanne would be proud of them and tell them so but she'd largely keep her mouth shut around other people.  She'd never tell the kid how smart he or she was but they'd know she thought they were pretty smart. She'd also tell them that being smart is not really that big of a deal.

If everyone had a Suzanne in their lives, they'd know that not everyone has a Suzanne and they'd approach the world that way.

If everyone had a Suzanne, they'd have a stable base to launch their own lives.  They'd have dinner with their family every night and they'd be able to count on her for a long, long time. They'd have a home where, while the place might be a little messy, it'd be full of love and ideas and conversation and laughter.

I hope you get to spend today with your Suzanne.

Happy Mother's Day.

The Rule Followers

The boots are always in line, so perfect of a line as to have been measured and laid plumb by a mathematical mind.  I remember those boots from my elementary school days.  I remember sitting up straight too. I'd push my head up tall and stick my arms out front on my desk, interlacing my fingers, hoping to be the one to be chosen to go first.  Our posture would have made a Presbyterian Minister smile.   I did not know then that we were learning the most important lesson in education; the one who follows the rule will be the one chosen.

Rules are helpful.  They keep the hall clean and free of boots.  They make unruly children more easily ruled. They  make a system run like a system but I wonder about the long term effects of all of this rule following. Is it a good thing to choose the leaders of a system by how well they adhere to its orthodoxy?  Vice Principals, Principals, Superintendents, Associate Directors of Education and Directors of Education are largely chosen by their ability to follow the dictates of School Boards and Ministries of Education.  While their job descriptions often include the word "leadership" it is an Orwellian term; leaders in education follow.

What rules and dictates have teachers, students and parents been told to follow over the years?  "This plastic, three pocketed writing folder best contains the writing process and improves writing."  "Sometimes a four period day is a five period day. " "To best evaluate an assignment break it into thinking, application, inquiry and communication."   "A chart, called a "rubric" will make marking clearer and less subjective."  "We can teach character through a handout." "Here is a 39 point guide to taking students skating."  

Most of this rule following is harmless. So a kid keeps his or her writing in a folder, or a teacher highlights a chart to give feedback; there is little worry in this except that it is symptomatic of greater issues.  Most good administrators look at initiatives and edicts from their superiors with a wary and jaundiced eye.  They take the good, leave the lesser half behind. These good administrators, like many I have worked with, make life easier for teachers and students but they do this at the risk of gaining further advancement in the system.

There is no doubt that the further a person moves up the chain is dependent on the orthodoxy of their beliefs and their ability to implement policy without question.  A system that rewards orthodoxy is one that will fail to anticipate criticism and will not be able to adapt to the communities they serve, particularly in times of rapid change.  Good rule followers have difficulty dealing with people who don't follow rules; incompetent teachers, rude and angry parents and disruptive students. Whether it is a trustee who uses racist language, a mob tearing the Koran, teachers who don't perform or students demanding an ever increasing list of rights, the leaders of education are frozen.

It seems to me the student who was chosen to go first all those years ago was often the student closest and nearest the teacher, the one who looked most like the teacher and the one who would do anything to please. This person is still the chosen one, chosen to lead our current education system and we know now, as we knew then, they are the last person we should follow.

20 Rules for parents, teachers and students

1)  They aren't doing homework in their rooms.

2)  If you can't function without a phone for eighty minutes, you have a problem.

3)   A kid who changes his or her name at some point in his or her high school career is in trouble.  I'm not talking changing it from Donald to Don,  I am talking my name was Kathy and now I want you to call me Egoyan.  There's a problem here.

4)  A person who can't look you in the eye is a person you want to keep your eye on.

5)  A kid with a locked bedroom door, is a kid doing something they shouldn't.

6)  You need to knock before you enter.

7)  If he or she won't leave the house without a backpack or bag of some sort, there's something illegal in the bag.

8) They skipped.  There wasn't a mistake.

9)  If they like the teacher that you have heard is terrible and they hate the teacher you have heard is great, they are wrong and you are right.

10)  If you chose a school with a uniform but cannot conform to the uniform, there's something wrong with you, not the uniform.

11)  If you don't know their friends, you're in trouble.

12)  If they like sleepovers a lot, they're not at a sleepover.

13)  The parent who is Ok with the kids drinking at their house, is no friend of anyone.

14)  That kid who binge drinks all the time?  He or she is an alcoholic.

15)  They didn't study as hard as they said they did.

16)  He wasn't holding it for a friend.

17)  That thing in the closet, is a bong.

18)  The music he or she is listening to is as misogynistic, sexual, racist, angry as you think.

19)  Your parents know, they just don't want to tell you yet.

20)  If the kid is too nice, they're too nice.

The Gradual Instant

It is fourth period and our Catholic school is hosting our annual boys basketball tournament.  There is a stoppage in play, just as the afternoon announcements and prayer begin.  As one of our students reads a prayer over the PA both public school teams in the gym stop, bow their heads and wait.  Our Catholic school students wander out of the gym, yelling and making plans for the weekend.  The public school teams are respectful, tolerant of the Catholic school. The Catholic students are not.

The incident reminds me of Anne Michaels' book Fugitive Pieces and how she develops the motif of the "gradual instant."  She asks the question, when does something change from one form to another.  What is the exact moment when a skeleton becomes a fossil? When does lava turn to stone?  When is a Catholic school no longer Catholic?

My education in Catholic schools, from kindergarten to postsecondary and my work in them spands all but six years of my life.  A member of my family has been working in or going to, a Catholic school for nearly seventy years.  I think it would be safe to say, I know something about them.   They are good places. that are tended to by a large and dedicated group of professionals, teachers, administrators, support workers, trustees, directors and parents who want to see the Catholic system thrive because they are honest people of faith. They've inherited and protected the system at great sacrifice.

The publicly funded Catholic school population in Ontario is comprised of three groups.  The first, and perhaps the smallest group, is Catholic students in religious and faithful Catholic families that attend Church weekly and believe in the tenants of the religion.  The second group is the non-Catholic, fundamentalist Christian and now, lately, Muslim families who hope to benefit from an education system that is trying to "instill" some sort of religious values.  The third group, and by far the largest, is lapsed Catholics who have a tradition of attending Catholic schools but are no longer believers in any faith and enrol their children out of some vague sense of duty or faith. They have some superstitious notion that God should be part of something.  This group likes the convenience of the system but would never fight to defend it because they don't really believe in Catholicism.  Their children were the ones walking out of the prayer during that basketball game.

All of these groups cling to the tattered idea that Catholic schools are more disciplined and better.

This composition poses problems for Catholic school systems across Ontario.  The first problem is despite all sorts of initiatives, including discriminatory hiring, Catholic graduate expectations, integration of religion in all subjects, permanent full time chaplains, prayer centers and the demanding of compliance in faith celebrations, they can't make their students and their families, Catholic. Secondly, the growing segment of their population, fundamentalist or Muslim, has no intention of ever becoming Catholic.  Both of these problems, slowly, gradually and in an instant, transmutes the school, changing it into something else.

The current Catholic system will be at a crossroads shortly.  Governments and courts are starting to understand that the system, while governed by dedicated Catholics, does not have a constituency that is Catholic and that there just are not enough students to go around to keep two school systems running in most communities.  Pressure will build to move to one school system and some political party is going to take advantage of this pressure.  An astute provincial political leader will learn that the system simply doesn't have the numbers to defend itself.

In Ontario, if the current leaders of the Catholic system, Directors of Education, OECTA and Chairs of the Board and trustees and dioceses were proactive, they'd recognize this gradual instant and manage it.  They'd open discussions with the government around the integration of the separate school system into the public, guaranteeing Catholic education would continue in some form in the new, unified system.

If they don't recognize that the system they are governing has changed, then, in a gradual instant, it will become a fossil.

At the feet of Masters

Ghirlandaio, his first master, made him sketch his left hand over and over again.  The young apprentice, in a fit of arrogance, sketched his right hand with his left.  The mentor remained unimpressed.  When he moved to sculpture, Bertoldo, the master, would not allow the artist who would eventually create David and the Pieta, to touch marble for two years. His masters and mentors knew of his potential but never revealed it to the young genius, recognizing that complete dedication to the craft will bring discipline to the artist and that will allow the genius to be revealed.   Both masters knew, that both teachers and students are below the subject, supplicating themselves to it in order to allow brilliance to emerge.

Ghirlandaio and Bertoldo did not recruit the young artist to their studios and interestingly, Michaelangelo's parents showed little to no interest in his potential or his talent.   Oh, to have the Renaissance again; where young apprentices showed loyalty, humility and dedication to their craft and waited patiently for their genius to be recognized by their masters first and then the wider public.

I am reading Irving Stone's The Agony and the Ecstasy in preparation for our fall trip to Tuscany.  It popped to the front of my brain as I watched the Biosteel High School All Star basketball game this week. The Biosteel game (sponsored by a drink that tastes like liquid gum) brings together Canadian "all stars" to show off their talents.    The players spend a good deal of time banging their chests, pointing at their opponent, making three point signs on a rare make and mostly, roostering around the court.  I think I saw two passes the entire game, one of them was to a ref.  It is a depressing affair if you love the art of basketball.

When you watch the game, you know that everyone is playing for himself.  There is no team play here, no loyalty to the other, no discipline instilled by the coaches. The idea of a dedication to a craft is supplanted by the fake glamour of a staged game hosted by a liquid candy floss company.   You can see the parents, hanging their dreams on their young sons and you can see the athletes themselves, physical specimens to be sure, but as unskilled in the fundamentals of their craft as any journeyman sculptor.  Perhaps worst of all, you get the impression that the masters, the coaches, are either impotent on the sidelines unable to offer the apprentices anything of worth or are desperately hoping for their own minute in the sun.

Michelangelo sat at the feet of his masters.  He submitted himself to their teachings with humility and patience and with discipline.  He did this because he knew that his masters had sat at the feet of their masters with the same humility and discipline.  There must have been a great temptation to introduce the young protege to the world early, to show him off so that Bertoldo and Ghirlandaio could bathe in the light of his brilliance.  The teachers did not bend to the temptation.  We could learn from these two teachers.  If we don't, the world may never see another David again.

When it's time to hang it up

This is an image is didactic.  It is taken from Muhammad Ali's last fight.  He was lured into a return to the ring to fight Larry Holmes, a former sparring partner, and regain his heavyweight championship for a record fourth time. Ali was beaten to a mumble.

In the past month I have been asked many times "are you sure you want to retire, you're so young?"  This has come from my parents, my siblings, my friends, my colleagues, some of whom I taught, but one group of people has never asked me that question-my students.

I'm no Muhammad Ali; I'm no champ.  Ali wanted to stay for a legacy.  The very nature of schools and their ability to renew themselves, offers no such promise.  Holmes, while pummeling his former mentor, begged him to quit.  This is something we should all try to avoid.

The simple truth is that there are reasons that both pull me into retirement and push me out of teaching.

I am being pulled by a cohort of teachers I grew up with in the profession, who are all now happily retired. These are people I worked with for almost three decades, we shared marriages, divorces, births and deaths.  Many of them were my mentors and role models.  I want to join them.

I am  pushed by another cohort of teachers.  Whether teachers at retirement age or beyond know it or not, young teachers are watching us.  A young person in teaching has done as many as seven years in temporary work. I've written about this before here.  Teachers at retirement age or beyond have many reasons to stay.  Lost marriages, dependent children, late starts in careers and financial difficulties in complicated lives compel people to stay and they should stay if they wish.  But be under no delusions, your younger colleagues want your position and the reality is, your effectiveness in the classroom will  fade. It's time to hand my job to a younger person.  I'd rather have someone ask me to stay than quietly imply I should leave.

I am pulled by a larger life.  There's some travelling to do, some more writing, maybe some painting.  There's some hikes and there's a fitness regime ahead that I hope I can stick to.  There's some canoe trips and some reading and there's some road trips with Christine and the dog(s).

I am pushed by age.  This is an uncomfortable thing for people in education to face and many disagree with me but teachers have a shelf life.  Your students first see you as a friend.  They then see you as an older sibling.  Then you are a parent.  When they see you as a grandparent, it's time. To a fourteen year old, anything over fifty is ancient.

Finally, I am pulled by a pension.  Teachers, because of careful planning and by choosing to defer some benefits, have developed a pension plan that is the envy of most people.  It is a good plan, not a gold plated one, but a good one.  I've contributed  8-12% of my income from each and every cheque  since I was 24.   My employer has contributed.  My representatives have hired professional managers who are paid in salary not in fees.  Those managers have invested money so we have surpluses and my representatives have shaped benefits so that the plan can be sustained.  It is a model that should be adopted by our government for everyone.  I'm going to retire because I can.

So this week, papers will be filed,  a resignation letter will be penned and hopefully on June 30th I will walk out of the school like this:

System Memo: Prayer Centers

System Memo #3666-04a

To:  All  Catholic Teachers

From:  Superintendent  Mr. O. Dei, Prayer Headquarters (PHQ) 

CC.: OECTA, Kathleen Wynne, Public Tax Payer

Subject:  Prayer Centers

Rationale:

It has recently come to the attention of Prayer Headquarters (PHQ) that students and teachers require a public place to pray during class.  I know we have chapels in every one of our secondary schools but apparently prayer is a big thing in the school boards around us so we want to jump on that bandwagon. Heck, in some of those boards students pray up to five times a day and we don't see why our kids can't put in that kind of effort. 

Now, we know kids here at Prayer Headquarters (PHQ) and we know that teenagers being teenagers, they just feel comfortable praying in front of their classes.  Why if a kid wants to jump up and rattle off a Decat of the Rosary or throw down a few Acts of Contrition, who are we to stop 'em?  We just want to help the youth of the day and increase our prayer quota because let's face it, it shows we are different from those other boards and a fair bit of funding is riding on that.  So please find your new prayer center installed in your classroom.  

Installation and Equipment:

We've installed a prayer center in every one of our classrooms in every one of our fifteen secondary schools at head level.  Please read the concussion protocol memo that will follow.  

Please take a moment to examine the prayer center and ensure it has the following:

1)  Lack IKEA floating shelf installed

2)  A sealed Bible

3)  A Rosary

4)  A Crucifix

5)  A picture of the Pope

6)  A picture of Mother Teresa

7)  A picture of the shroud of Turin

8)  A finger of an 8th century saint

9)  Air freshener

10)  Holy Water

11)  A prayer of the Day

12)  A picture of Notre Dame's football team

13)  Gold, Incense and Myrrh

14)  A Bell

15)  A picture of Bill Davis and Cardinal Carter smoking cigars

Finally, please ensure that students have a clear path to the prayer center so that they can jump up and rattle one off at a moment's notice. Maybe during that test you are giving or maybe when you have gone on too long with the lesson they could just pop on over to the prayer center and pray for deliverance.  Just let them jump right up and pound one out.

Thanks so much for your care and attention to this matter.  We look forward to the roll out of our live Crucifixion event in the Cafeteria in April. Please forward any names of students or teachers you want to participate in the event.

Yours in Prayer,

O. Dei

Superintendent of Prayer Headquarters (PHQ)

Spring Swings

I will miss spring in a high school.

I am in my portable at lunch, trying to keep ahead of the marking, looking out the window at the abandoned swing set from the elementary school that use to occupy the site.  It is a spring day that makes me want to leave this musty classroom and run full speed backwards to my days at university and playing baseball when I should have been studying for finals.

They appear like forsythia, the first flowers of spring.

The boy arrives at the swing first.  He sits down and curls his legs underneath him, shortening them so that just the tips of his toes are dragging on the ground.  She arrives shortly after and sits on the swing beside him.  I should return to my marking, shouldn't be watching from my desk in the corner of the room but the essays are not as compelling as this.  They begin to talk, each facing forward.  The wind blows her hair in front of her face and she pushes it back into place. His swing begins to spin, as his toes touch down and move it in a spiral moment.  It is very gentle.  She does the same and as they twirl, their feet begin to touch.

The swings slow down and the two slowly come to a stop, facing each other.  I pick up my pen, glance at the papers.  I have miles to go.  The swings move slightly in the breeze with their feet, toeing and brushing towards each other.  They talk and glance and move slowly in the breeze.  She touches her hair again and he looks away and then towards her again.

Finally they both stop.  Their knees are touching, they are laughing in that spring sunshine.  The swings move slightly, as they toe the ground, swinging towards each other.  The school bell sounds and they walk hand in hand back to school.

They make me think of Robert Frost's poem:

Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Youth in spring have, over the years, lifted me toward heaven.  They've become a daily reminder of my own youth, they've demanded that I remain with them.  I could have done worse than be a swinger of birches.

Flight Deck

As I write this I am high above Canada, flying home from my last March Break.  I am secure in my seat, but the thought does creep into my head; is my pilot any good?  How do I know that the static filled voice that tells me the weather in Toronto, knows what he is doing?  Ultimately, I am relying on the other professional that sits to his or her right in that cockpit.  I am trusting that each is evaluating the performance of the other.  I trust that, while they are flying the aircraft, each has an eye on the other.

To compare flying a plane to piloting a classroom may on its surface, be perverse.  However, we lock children, vulnerable people, in classrooms with teachers for up to six hours a day for ten months at a time. And while a teacher rarely  makes a life or death decision in his or her daily business, a teacher can have a large impact on the well being of a student.  So it seems to me, that an evaluation and improvement of a teacher is as important, in the long run, as an evaluation and development of a pilot.

The most meaningful evaluation of my work has not come from the standard performance appraisal I have had once every two to three years as mandated by my contract.  Most of these were monotonous affairs, where an administrator, who may know little about my area of curriculum and in some cases had far less experience in a classroom than I, filled out a form created out of a union negotiation.  Ultimately, this produced a performance appraisal that was as helpful to me as the food service on this plane is to its navigation.

Evaluations of me by students haven't been any better.  Some blow smoke at me as they look for a higher mark while others carry out vendettas on-line.  Helpful insight has been rare among parents as well, who know as much about teaching as I do about flying this plane.  After all, I've been on a plane before, so how hard can it be to fly it?

Setting aside the stale jokes about airline food and lost bags, there is a lot to admire about the aviation industry.  There are regular checks on pilots and most importantly, each professional demands the best out of the person next to them.  This is what the evaluation and improvement of teachers needs to be like and I have been lucky enough to work in such an environment.

The best evaluation, the most important professional development, has come in a workroom not much bigger than the flight deck of this aircraft.  The nine teachers in that windowless room have managed to create a professional work environment that encourages constant improvement.  We read widely outside of school.  We develop and share resources.   We talk constantly about our courses, techniques that work and over our weekends and holidays use a "group chat" to augment our teaching practices.  Finally we are in and out of each other's classrooms and  like the pilots here, we help each other make subtle course corrections as we go about our daily work.  We share all of these things and in so doing, we demand a better performance from each other.  This may not be the case in all schools but my hunch is that it is as common in education as it is for a plane to land successfully.

I have to return my tray to its upright position now and fasten my seat belt.  The lights of Toronto are below and with the care and attention of a  team of professionals, I will be on the ground shortly, heading into the last leg of my career.  I'm looking forward to seeing those teachers in that windowless room.

On Coaching

I really like the picture that accompanies this week’s blog.  It is a picture of two of my former players, one a coach at Humber College and the other an outstanding shooting guard on a very good high school team I coached a few years ago. They are celebrating a college national championship.

Coaching was a major part of my teaching life.  I figure I coached somewhere around 50 teams, over 1000 games and around 4000 practices.  I think I coached nearly 500 players.  I started coaching basketball because I loved the complexity of the game, as many of my former players know, I often called it "high speed, moving chess."  I enjoyed the intricacy of it and I enjoyed breaking it down and having each player master skills that made them part of a successful whole.  I felt like it was a moment in my work where I could see if my skills were as good as I thought they might be.

There's a fair bit of ego in that last statement.  When I first started, I saw it about me, my ability, my teaching, my coaching.  When I finished, I was a little better at letting the performance of the athlete be theirs and theirs alone.  While winning remained an important part of my coaching, at the end of my career, it became more than that.

 At the end now, I wonder about the sacrifices.  The countless hours in gyms and weight rooms, on road trips, driving vans full of tired or cranky or hungry  kids, was  it worth it?  This is an easy question to answer when my own children were on the teams.  I wouldn't change a thing of that but the other years? What about the countless seasons where I coached other people's children and was away from my own?  What about the sacrifice my wife made? She saw little of the reward and a lot of the pain.

Dutch thinker and historian, Rutger Bergman argues that in our modern economy many of the jobs we have are what he calls "bull shit jobs."  He goes on to define a "bullshit job" as one where even the person employed in such a manner sees it as "superfluous".  He lists PR advisers, Human Resource managers, telemarketers and most administrative jobs in both the private and public sectors.  I've been lucky, there's been very little bull shit in my job.  Some, but probably not enough to completely cover the bottom of your shoe.  My work has been meaningful in many ways that I hadn't predicted.

In a melding of the two sides of my work life, I now, more than ever, see basketball as a metaphor.  Faulkner in his essay "On Receiving the Nobel Prize" writes about writing as the only thing "worth the sweat and the agony."  He also worries that modern writers will write only of "victories without hope and worst of all without pity and compassion." He also is afraid of  "defeats in which no one loses anything of value."

High school basketball  gave me these things.  It gave me the chance at victories where I could teach compassion and the value of the agony and the sweat.  The insulting balm that non-participants use to sooth players and coaches after a loss is "it's just a game."  No it is not just a game.  It is a metaphor for our dedication to each other.  A symbol of what we are willing to sacrifice for each other.  It is covenant between a teacher and a player, each committing completely to the other and when we failed, we knew we had lost something of value.

Look at that picture again.  Coaching has given me this.

Reflections in a Window

I wonder if you've ever considered just how much music a high school coach has to listen to as he or she drives teams to and from games and tournaments.  If you ever did consider this, you would be far kinder to your teachers.  Over thirty years of teaching and coaching, believe me it adds up to a lot of music.

It hasn't always been pretty.  There's been some dry years.  There was Milli Vanilli on the way up to Algonquin Park for a camping trip. Three hours of  "Blame it on the Rain" does something to you.  Not quite sure what it does but it does something to you.  They don't even do that to detainees in Guantanamo.

The millennium wasn't much better.  Katy Perry's  Hot 'n Cold coming back from a tournament in Kingston was a difficult time.   "You're in and you're out, you're up and you're down".  You don't just shrug off insight like that.

Then there was Blind River (Old Neil sings about her ya know), who could forget Blind River.

I'm driving a van full of boys to Blind River. I don't know why it's Blind River...just accept that as our destination.  It's the early '90's and we leave the school at 6 am.  This basketball trip, like all basketball trips, past, present and future begins with the fight over who rides shotgun and by default, who controls the music. The '90's  is the decade of the mix tape and each player wants to take his turn playing his favourite music. This will be a trip dominated by The Tragically Hip.  We will listen to it in one form or another in one mix tape or another, on both legs of the journey.

When I check into the Mom and Pop motel after a long, long drive, the owner keeps looking over my shoulder and asking "Are they are good boys?".  I reassure him but he seems nervous.  And then I see what he sees; the van is rocking side to side, two wheels off the ground in beat, as the boys jam to Little Bones. The windows are fogged and they are singing at the top of their lungs.

It could be quite a weekend.

There's the games themselves, which are endless and relentless.  There's the host school, W.C. Eaket,  inviting all the teams to a dance on the Friday night.  There's me, in my pajamas, clearing every teenage girl in Blind River out of the motel parking lot after the dance.  There's my point guard developing a throat abscess, collapsing after the semi-final game.  There's his trip to a Sault Ste. Marie Hospital, in an ambulance, and my co-coach having to borrow a car and stay for two nights on a friend's couch in the Soo until the parents arrive.  To this day I have no idea how the coach got home.

There's the Innkeeper on Sunday morning asking "if I'd like to take the empties back to the beer store?"  It's one of the few times there is absolute silence in the van.

Then there's the knifing snowstorm home; a white knuckle drive along old highway 69.  We are asked to leave a Pizza Hut in Parry Sound because the boys have devoured the entire Hut. Serves them right to advertise "all you can eat for $5.99."  The van at this point is a rolling compost pile encrusted in road salt; food wrappers, empty cups and of course the unmistakable smell of adolescence having played four games and not having showered.  Did you know sometimes players think that not changing your socks brings you luck? True fact.

It is very late now.  The van is quiet.  Most of the players are asleep except for Matt in the shotgun seat.  He begins to talk.  They always begin to talk at this moment.  It's Matt this time but it could be Daniel or Katie or Pat or Kelly or Phil.  Each will stare out the window, while the music is low and will ask me questions or will tell me about his or her family or his or her dreams.  I won't say much, nod a bit, shift in my seat. They'll talk and talk, coming to conclusions about themselves that they will only find in the reflection of a window at night.

I drop the last player off.  It has been a twelve hour drive.   He turns to me,"Sir, you are so lucky."
"Why's that?"
"You get to do this every year."

Yes, yes I do.

A Student Leads the Way

I have been thinking of two men.  The first is a former student who gave a presentation to our school this past week as a member of the Get Real organization that encourages tolerance, understanding and fairness to all.

I was moved by the presentation of our former student.   He spoke of how a Catholic teacher really saved his life by making a stand against homophobia and gay slurs in his classroom.  The young man was in grade 11 at the time and he told us, "I really didn't hear what the teacher said for the rest of the class.  I only heard that he said it was Ok to be gay and that I deserved to be respected."  This is the power and responsibility that teachers have. With a few words we can damage a life or we can save it.  We can rectify an injustice. We can make things better.

But when the former student spoke to the staff at our monthly meeting, later in the day, I began to think of another man, a former colleague.  He and I worked together for over twenty years. He met his partner around the same time I met Christine.  They have been together as long as we have and it wasn't until his retirement party that he felt comfortable enough to include his partner in the social life of our school.  His partner never attended a staff function; he never came to a graduation, a theater production, a game. His partner never felt included enough to chaperone a dance, to come to a staff sponsored Jays game or to attend the Christmas party.  He never spoke of his partner, about their weekends or their vacations.  He lived far away from the school and our small town so that his secret and our shame, would never be addressed.

When I heard the student's story, I was moved but I was angered as well. The very teachers who are asked to work to create inclusive environments, classrooms free of bullying and prejudice are themselves victims of both.  I have worked with many gay teachers over my career and all of them have been forced to live double lives.

We live in strange times. So many barriers have come down yet we live in a time when a Catholic teacher can still be fired for loving someone.  It is bizarre that Kathleen Wynne, the Premier of our province and a former Minister of Education, could, if she could get past the prejudice hiring practices of Catholic boards, be fired for her marriage.

This is an injustice and the only way it can be resolved is if Catholic teachers demand justice.

Defending Civility

I am coaching my son's basketball team at a tournament in Toronto.  My wife is going to come to the second game and bring our daughter, to watch our suburban team take on one of the best teams in Ontario. She calls me, asking for directions to the school and I go out into the parking lot of the school to get better reception and give her better directions.

I'm distracted by the phone, the upcoming game and as I look around the parking lot, it seems I have stumbled into a fight.

Now, I'm from Oshawa.  Fights in Oshawa were fights, you know.  There was no rolling around on top of each other with somebody's friends piling on and out manning some poor kid. The fights in the suburban school I teach in had always been little more than slap-fests with someone vowing to get their Mom to call the school.  Fights in Oshawa were generally, one on one and usually ended with someone either capitulating or being knocked unconscious.  The fight I stumbled into was an Oshawa style fight. Except for the bystanders.  Many of them weren't kids, many of them were adults, maybe even parents of the two kids fighting.

Well, I'm in it now aren't I.  I close my flip phone, use my teacher voice to tell the kids to stop fighting.  No effect.  When I say they were kids, I mean they were teenagers but each was well over 6' tall.  I yell again. No response.  Finally, I wade into the fight, grab one fellow by the ear (I don't know where that came from) and the other fellow by the scruff of the neck. Now, as many of you know, I am a powerful 5'7" but even at that great stature, I had both my arms well above my head and the two combatants were now hunched over like church ushers.

I am yelling "stop, you stop" and then I look at the crowd that has now assembled in the parking lot and I start yelling at them; "you should be ashamed of yourselves, you're an embarrassment."  I take the two kids into the school, noticing that they both have the same basketball jackets on and deliver them to their coach.

Months later I am telling this story to a group and after I tell it, one person comes up to me and tells me she's a cop in that area and that what I did was foolish.  I could have been killed she tells me.  She tells me, in that area of Toronto, they don't get out of the cruiser unless there are at least two other cruisers there.

It is a story I tell with some hesitation because of the ability of stories to build myth.  I am asked to tell it a few times a year and I always do so with some trepidation as to not sound boastful or heroic in any way. I tell it to you now because we live in dangerous times .

Maybe I was foolish.  Maybe I was lucky and I certainly wouldn't recommend others take a similar risk but the world has changed.  Maybe the civility we inherited and have been expected to maintain, has taken a hit or two.  Whether it is in a parking lot, or in a plane, at a dinner table or on social media we have to confront boorishness and in order to protect civility, the "snowflakes" as we are sometimes called, might have to bend an ear or two.

Lighting our way Home

There is something about an old school at night.   There's one around the corner from my house.  It has been abandoned for years, recently sold to a developer and is soon to find a new life as the center of a condo project.  Its skin thin windows, are always dark. The cement and stone steps, where generations of children and their teachers marched, jumped, skipped, ran and trudged up, are now cracked and full of weeds in the summer, covered in snow this cold night.

I pull up to the stop sign near the school.  It is that time of winter when the days are getting longer and as I pull over to look, everything, cars, road, snow and school is coloured by a pink hue of a setting sun.  It is a scene out of a Frost poem.

There it is,  a light in the second floor window, in the corner classroom and just for a moment, I am happier than I have been all day.

Just for a moment, I think the school is alive again.  There is a teacher in that room.  She is grading some papers or she is preparing tomorrow's lessons.  I think she should get home, it is too late and her family needs her.  Or maybe there are students there.  They are staying late, practicing for an upcoming concert or play.  Maybe they are working on a class project and the teacher is helping them.  Maybe it's the custodian, pushing the chairs in, getting ready to wash the floors, picking up a sweater  that has dropped from a desk. Or maybe it is the principal, sitting with some parents, discussing their child's progress, each trying to find difficult answers. Or maybe it is the parent's council, trying to figure out how to raise some funds for a school trip.  In my mind, they are all there tonight and it makes me smile to myself as I put the car in gear.

A light in a window of an abandoned school has somehow made me warm on a cold winter's night.  I turn the corner and head home but my eyes keep glancing to my rear view mirror, hoping to see a silhouette of a person in the school; hoping to see all of those people who make a school.

But it's not just the desire to see the building alive again that has warmed me.  It is the importance of these places. We have built these places and while some need to be torn down or re-purposed, they remind me of the great commitment that we have made to one another and of our dedication to each others' children.

This is the light that guides me home.

The Rolling of the Lemons

Ontario's public education system is, by any measure, one of the best in the world but there are two festering sores that, if not treated, will cause this system to suffer irreparable damage.  The first, the hiring of new teachers, I dealt with here.

The second is the dismissal of incompetent teachers.

Let's begin with the case of a teacher who, according to an investigation by the Ontario College of Teachers, was found to have:

• Failed to maintain a the standards of the profession
• Failed to keep records according to the standards of the profession
• Failed to adequately supervise people under his or her care
• Failed to comply with the Education Act

Evidence was presented at the teacher's hearing that he or she was:

• unprepared for class
• did not provide students with feedback
• did not monitor students properly
• did not know how to manage a classroom
• did not know the curriculum

The teacher was reprimanded and publicly admonished in the College of Teacher's magazine Professionally Speaking.  Remember, this represents a case where the Principal, the Board, the Union, the teacher's colleagues, the parents and students all did what they were supposed to do; they reported, they documented, they gave adequate defense, they counselled.  

This teacher is still in our classrooms.

This is the shame of my profession and there's plenty of blame to go around.  

First we have boards and the government of Ontario.  The boards poorly screen new hires in their first years, failing to weed out obviously flawed candidates. Connected to this is the Ontario government and its regulation 274 that hires teachers on seniority rather than merit.  You could not design a better system to encourage mediocrity. 

Once an incompetent teacher is hired, boards move them, rolling these lemons on a regular basis and remaining unmoved by the pleas of parents, teachers, administrators and students.  Boards of education remain terrified of law suits and as a result grow more and more comfortable with the incompetency that they have permitted to grow. 

Why did the board of education, who employs the teacher in the case above, continue to employ the teacher?  

Next, teachers and their unions are to blame.  Many times teachers, for fear of reprisal, fail to report gross incompetency.  They turn a blind eye to the incompetent across the hall, willing to throw other people's children in front of these disasters.  The teachers' unions, trying to defend "the process" defend gross incompetency, with little regard for the harm it does to students and the reputation of their membership and their own credibility in the educational conversation.  Some of these incompetents are defended by the union their entire careers, wasting the time and energy  and resources of the union that should be used to protect and promote the good work most teachers do.

Finally, the public and the College of Teachers must shoulder some of the blame.  The parents, for quietly trying "to get through the year" and not willing to report gross examples of incompetence and the College of Teachers for only tackling the most egregious of behaviors and maintaining such a low bar of professional conduct that even teachers who have been drunk in classrooms can step over it. A reprimand in these types of cases is not enough.  The College should strip the licenses of these incompetents on a far more regular basis.  This would at least justify the expense and opulence of the College.

There are over a 110,000 teachers in Ontario and we can all agree the vast, vast majority of them are competent, hard working, conscientious professionals.  However, listen to any discussion of public education and you will hear that everyone has had an experience with an incompetent teacher at some point in their time in the education system.  This is unacceptable.

It is unacceptable that we take our most vulnerable people, our children, and place them in front of an incompetent for up to six hours a day for an entire school year and we do nothing about it.   

I know that the best in our system, our teachers, are sick of our worst.  Let's get rid of them.

The Common Hero

As I type this, there is a lawyer at JFK airport trying to free an Iraqi man, Hameed Darwish, who has worked with the American military in Iraq.  He is being detained on an executive order signed by President Trump and the lawyer cannot meet with the man.

I am thinking of that lawyer.  No doubt he is an extraordinarily, common man.  I don't know his name.  I bet he had to take a cab to the airport.  I bet he hasn't eaten well in the past twenty four hours.

As I type this, there is a reporter, no doubt poorly dressed, chasing down a lead on Trump's connections to Russia.  She probably has sore feet.  There is a very good chance her entire week will be dedicated to a part of a large story that may not make it into print.  We will never know.  She will wonder if any of it is worth it.

As I type this, there is a teacher, marking final exams.  She is looking at the essay question:  "In a clear and concise, logically constructed and textually supported essay, decide if Orwell's assertion that "Man is infinitely malleable" is true."  She is sitting at her kitchen table, coffee cup cooling as she begins to see if her students have mastered the critical ability to think.

Three common people.  Three people, any one of whom, you might walk your dog with or have a glass of wine with or who might be coaching your kid's hockey team.  You may even be one of them.

Robert Bolt in his masterpiece A Man For All Seasons, begins his play with "The sixteenth century, like all centuries, is the century of the Common Man."  In this young century, with the encouragement of technology and social media, we have begun to disparage the common men and women who do common work.  We question our doctor because we diagnosed ourselves on the Internet.  We question a need for a lawyer and make jokes at their expense.   We dismiss journalists as biased and we ridicule teachers as lazy.

Interestingly, we attack these common people in these professions while we assert our own uniqueness, our own individuality. We want special menus.  We want unique treatments.  We want elite programs for our children, we want our own music and we want it now. We, we argue, are unique.

When Bolt used the term "common" he didn't mean it in a derogatory way; he meant it as, that which we all share.  The common is what connects us; the common should be exalted.

Our teacher has refilled her coffee cup and is looking at the exams, all of which have been written by common people who she hopes will do uncommon things.  She is imagining one of them chasing down a story that will make our democracy safer and more vibrant.  She is thinking that one of them will rescue a stranger in a windowless room in a large airport, assuring rights apply to all.

Our teacher knows, that Bolt was right:  The twenty first century, like all centuries, is the century of the Common Man.

It's Time to do More than Talk

I've been teaching in the most typical of high schools in Ontario for nearly thirty years and if my experience of mental health is consistent with schools across the country, then folks, we have a serious problem.  I want to start with the macro and move to the micro.

 Here are the statistics, taken from the Ontario College of Teachers:

• Half of all lifetime cases of diagnosable mental illness begin before age 14, and three-quarters begin before age 24. 
• Suicide is the second leading cause of death among young people age 15 to 24. 
• Ninety per cent of those who commit suicide have a diagnosable mental illness.
• 10 per cent of boys and 11 per cent of girls age four to 11 have symptoms of depression. 
• Mental-health problems in children are expected to increase by 50 per cent by 2020. 
• Seventy per cent of childhood mental-health problems can be solved through prevention, early diagnosis and intervention.

Anecdotally, I can tell you that:

• We've lost a number of students to suicide.
• We've lost a teacher to suicide.
• We have a small epidemic of anxiety in both our students and our teachers.
• Some in our school suffer from mental illnesses ranging from depression to personality and bipolar disorders. 

I think the Ontario education system contributes to this epidemic.  We work everyone too hard, we keep students and teachers inside (in my case, without a window), we limit physical activity, we emphasize results at the expense of process and we don't get enough sleep.  Our language, our work places, our classrooms, our hallways, sometimes encourage competition over cooperation.  We don't give anyone enough time to talk, and think, and decompress.

Finally and perhaps most importantly, we provide little help to those who feel unwell in such a system.

I'm  a teacher and I don't pretend to be trained in psychology but I have seen a few people over the past thirty years and I think I've learned what can keep them happy and healthy:

• Let's build schools that are made for people.  Let's have open windows, buildings that provide natural light and invite nature in.
• Let's give elementary teachers the training and ability to screen for mental health issues and then give families and students the supports they need. 
• Let's provide supports for teachers who far too often are left to struggle with their own mental health while still trying to be effective teachers.
• Let's screen teacher candidates, much like pilots, for mental health issues and either provide them support or discourage their entry into this profession that demands the most stable of psyches.

The mental health of our children and those who care for them is the most serious issue we currently face in education.  Let's do more than talk.  

A Day in the Life of a High School Basketball Coach

It starts with a 7am shooting practice to prepare for the 4:45pm game at another school that afternoon.  His team is sluggish after the weekend tournament; two students are late to practice.  Most of the kids have colds. He sends them off to class after 45 minutes, with one player staying behind to talk to him about a family issue that has arisen.  He will be late for his home room class.

He teaches a full class load, including covering for other colleagues working on other extra curricular activities and eats his lunch at his desk as he organizes the school's home tournament scheduled for next month.  He's been working on the tournament since last May.  

That tournament is one of two this season that are out of town and requires him to book rental vans, and hotel rooms on his credit card and arrange for another chaperone to attend.  The board of education insists he fill out a package of forms that is over 12 pages long for those tournaments.  It doesn't matter if you are taking students to Oslo or Orillia, it's the same number of forms.   His team will play close to forty games this year, requiring two hours of practice a day, five days a week, to prepare and four to six tournament weekends.  You can't be competitive at this level without that minimum time commitment.

The phone rings.  It is one of the parents of a player on his team.  Dad wants to know why his son is not playing as much as the other players.  The parent is angry and he needs to explain that he is teaching the merits of hard work and discipline.  He suggests the parent speak to his son about his effort.  He hangs up realizing the parent is still angry and he is late for fourth period.

After the bell rings and before he leaves for the game, the Vice Principal stops by. The Vice Principal wonders if he could speak to a player about an incident in math class. The math teacher is having difficulty with the class and the Vice Principal would like the student to be a leader in the class.  He promises the Vice Principal he will.

He will, against the advice of his union, drive students to the game this afternoon in order to save money.  He will use his car, his gas.  One player has forgotten his away uniform but he always packs a spare one in the ball bag.  During the warm up, one of the students from the other school takes one of his basketballs.  He has to follow the student down the hall to retrieve it.  The referees are late.  As a result he will miss his own kids' bedtime.  

The game will end at 6:30 and he will drive two or three players home who do not have rides.  One young man needs to be dropped at work.  He obliges, recognizes the student hasn't had dinner and gives the student a few dollars so he can eat.

That night, after he has tried to spend a moment or two with his wife and having looked in on his own sleeping children, he lies in bed thinking about the team.  He thinks he could have been better.  He thinks he made some mistakes, he feels badly about the parent phone call.  He feels badly that not everyone can play.

He rolls over and questions why he does this, season after season, year after year.  He thinks of the players and their improvement.  He thinks of the bonds that have formed, the struggles faced, the love that has been shared.  He thinks about the opposing coach and takes comfort in their effort as much as his.  Those coaches become his life long friends.

He thinks about the sacrifices that so many teachers make for the "extra" curricular at the school; how kind and considerate and how hard working each is and he thinks most particularly about the fine men and women he has coached and is thankful for each one of them.

He's ready to do it again tomorrow.