A Christmas Story

Silence between Songs

A work of short fiction by Dan de Souza

Ya, I should be happy.  I’m sure all of the teachers slaving in classes at this time of year would gladly trade places with me.  What other lucky bastard gets to take the dog mid-week, mid-afternoon to the tree farm to get the goddamn tree….the mall walkers and me...senior citizens and me.  At least the dog won’t want to talk.  At least we can just get the tree in silence.

I pull the car into the tree farm parking lot over a rutted driveway.  Every Christmas we bring the kids here on the Saturday before the big day.  We ride on the wagon out to where the good trees are.  I chop one down that Emma and Steven have chosen and we drag it back to the car.  While the kids are having hot chocolate, Cheryl and I tie the tree onto the roof rack.  Not this year though.  It’s me and the dog, mid-week; no crowds, no kids, no noise.  The tree farmer comes out of the Quonset hut when he hears my car on the gravel.  He comes out to greet me, like he does every year.

“Where are the kids this year?”  I smile and nod at him, reach into the trunk and get the ax.  What I want to say is that my wife has ordered the whisper that is her husband out of the house as part of his recuperation; hoping he will return to her with a tree and a smile.  That is what I want to say but can’t.

The dog goes for a sniff.  I turn and the farmer is right beside me.  He says again, “where are the kids this year?”  I shrug, reach into the pocket of my jacket for my card and hand it to him.  I see his lips move as he reads: “I was hit in a hockey game, took a slap shot to the throat and will never be able to speak again.”  He looks up at this point, like they all do.  “I’m sorry “ he says.  I hand him the card from my left pocket, it says “Ya, I’m sorry too.”

No need for the wagon this year.  Just the dog and me.  I take the ax and place it over my shoulder.  We head down the dirt path to where the good trees are.  The dog is moving along in front of me, nosing the ground as he goes.  He keeps looking back to make sure I’m with him.  I choose a row of trees that looks good; the dog scoots down other rows but keeps returning to make sure that I’m still there.  My ax bites into the wood of the tree.  It is good to be doing something with my muscles again after all that time lying in bed.  The air in my nostrils and in my throat feels good, like breathing again after a long drawn out cold.  The tree comes apart, not with a shudder, like I imagine great trees falling the wild, but with a little puff of snow.  The death of a domestic, tree farm tree.  I place my ax over one shoulder and pick up the stem of the tree, dragging the body of it behind me.  

Where is that damn dog?  Christ, where the hell is the dog?  I begin to move back to the hut.  To hell with the dog, I’ll leave without him.  By the time I’m back at the lot, the dog is still nowhere to be found.  The tree farmer gives me a hand putting the tree on the roof rack.  “Where’s the dog?” he asks.  I shrug again and I can tell that he is embarrassed, they’re always embarrassed, as if someone is supposed to remember that an able bodied man can’t speak.  

I cup my hands around my mouth, like I used to do when coaching in the gym.  I prepare my voice to shout “Digby”.  I get ready to hear my teacher voice as my students use to call it.  What I expect to hear and what finally slumps out of me are two different things.  What I expect is the voice, the one that can fill any auditorium.  The one that makes small children and large adults turn their heads and pay attention.  Instead the sound that comes out is the sound of a dog choking on a stick.  My larynx implodes with pain; my eyes water and I begin to choke on the saliva I can no longer swallow.  I lean on the car and grab my throat and spit, staining the snow red.   The farmer takes up the call, “here boy” he calls.  His voice echoes through his suburban forest.  His voice bellows out full and robust, old and gnarled though he is.  Finally, the last humiliation’ my dog comes to him.  I nod in appreciation and disloyal, disobedient mutt bounds into the back and wags his tail completely oblivious to his treachery.

At the stop sign, at the end of the driveway, I wait for traffic to clear.  The dog begins to howl.  Every time we take the thing in the car, it howls like it is going to be put down.  Like we are taking it on its last visit to the vet.  If only.  The stupid thing won’t shut up.  I scream at him to shut up and almost faint with the pain.  I wipe my mouth after and there's blood on my glove.  When the traffic finally clears, instead of taking my car onto the highway, I beat my fists into the steering wheel. Christ, what am I going to do?  “Teach the deaf,” they all whisper at me as they look down at me on my hospital bed.  The tone of their voices says, glad this didn't happen to me.  Yes teach the deaf indeed.  That..would..really...suit..my...style.  I beat the steering wheel to emphasize each pathetic word.  When I look in the rear view mirror, the dog is sitting on the back seat, on ear flicked over, mouth open, happy as hell that we went on this mid-afternoon trek and finally quiet.

When the kids arrive home I am in the living room with the tree.  They come bounding into the room and hug me.  They are just happy that their Dad looks like their Dad again.  I hear my wife’s care come in the driveway.  The dog barks to greet her and to all appearances, this is a Christmas like every other.  The place smells like Christmas.  Christmas carols have been playing on the radio for weeks and the cards that we did not get a chance to send this year remain on the gate leg table in the hall.  There’ll be no brag rag this year.  If there was how would it begin?  “This year finds us just fine thanks for asking, my husband remains mute and life will never be the same.  Steven continues to score goals for his house league team.”  

The fire is finally lit.  My scotch is in my glass and the ice melting make swirling patterns you’d see in an advertisement for scotch.  Finally there is silence.  The kids are in bed.  My throat is not sore so much as it is throbbing.  The doorbell.  Christ.

The dog is barking like it does anytime visitors come to the door.  What kind of person would be calling on this cold of a night?  I let the dog out the back door so that he doesn’t jump on whoever is at the door.  When I open it, the warmth from our home meets the cold from the night and an immediate frost rises on my lenses.  I cannot see the visitors but I can hear them and they are singing.

I had forgotten about the carolers that come to our house every year the week before Christmas.  Forgotten them in the hustle and bustle that is Christmas for a family with young children and for a family that has only a whisper of what a father was.

I let the carolers in and can hear underneath their voices the sound of the dog barking at the back door.  They are singing “The First Noel”, my wife’s favorite and she joins me in the breezeway of our house.  I feel her hand on my shoulder as she stands on the step, above me that leads into the kitchen.  I step back, away from her hand, away from the carolers, they enter the space I have vacated.  The dog gives up his barking and is probably listening with his back to the metal screen door, quiet at last.  My fogged glasses blind me.  I can’t see my unwanted guests, nor can I greet them.  I can only hear their Christmas voices.

Finally I take off my glasses and rub them on my sweatshirt.  My feet are wet from the melting snow on the carolers’ boots and all I want to do is be back to my fire, with my scotch and my own brooding silence.  They stop singing.  My wife gives them a hearty round of applause.  I look up, putting my glasses back on and the faceless, murky carolers come into focus in the silence between songs.

For the first time, I see them.  They are my students, my senior students.  These are not the carolers of every other season, but my students that I have not seen in over a month.  The larger boys are in the back, uncomfortable in my house but nonetheless, they are there.  The girls, glowing in the light of the breezeway, with their jackets open and their mitts on, are looking at me from the front row.  There are tears on their cheeks as we see each other for the first time in what seems like a very long time.  My hand goes to my throat.

They say, all at once, but not together, “Merry Christmas, sir.”  We have one more song for you.  They begin “Silent night, Holy night.”

Silent Stories

It is Christmas and Christmas, more than any other season, is defined by its stories. The Magi, stories of Light, of stars, of Scrooges, of Grinches.  The stories we tell define us too.  They explain our position in the world.  This season is the season above all when people gather to listen to stories, whether in song or in prose; whether told or read.  These stories make me think of our stories.  What are the stories of teachers?  So many of our stories can never be told or if they can be told, they must be done with care and almost in a whisper.

Most of the students have gone home.  Some linger in hallways, wishing each other well and “all the best” and “Merry Christmas” but most have said their goodbyes,“Have a good break sir, Merry Christmas!”

The teacher is packing his bag; he has a dinner with friends planned and the Christmas break runs ahead like a smooth, flat, frozen river.   She stops him in the hallway as he is heading to his car.  She is crying, sobbing.  Her brother has been hearing voices.  He’s kicking in the walls.  He kicked in the fridge.  Her parents are at a loss.  He stands and listens and ushers her to the side, near the lockers, so that others in the hall can not hear her.

He calls home, quickly arranges a meeting at the school.  Their boys first break with reality  happened in  grade 10.  He started hearing voices that summer.  The teacher listens even though the hallways of the school have been empty for hours.  The family is too embarrassed to talk about it, too afraid.  They don’t know where to turn.

There are calls made.  Arrangements come together and quickly, efficiently, the young man is placed into professional care.  He is admitted to a hospital and he begins to get the help he needs.

Later, while others are at home, while others are with friends and family, the teacher, struggles with his coat.   “I’ll be back soon”, he says as he heads out the door.  There is a bag in the car; chocolates, a gift card for Tims, a book.  He nods at the nurse as he walks down the corridor, entering the room of a boy who talks to people who are not in the room.

The stories of teachers are not always the stories of pageants and choirs, of decorations and class parties.  Most times they are not the stories of dramatic rescues or heroic journeys.  They are not the stories of the powerful, of the famous, of the rich.  

Our stories are about children, they are about families.  Ultimately our stories, some of our most important stories, must remain as quiet as a silent night.

20 things they don't teach you in Teacher's College

1)  The more embarrassing the prescription, the more likely a student from your class works in the pharmacy.

2)  There is always a SNOW DAY bottle of wine in your house.

3)  The Head Secretary and the Head Custodian run the school.  Get to know them.  Bring them coffee.  Say hello to them, smile.  You're welcome.

4)  When teaching a student who has a hearing impairment, turn off the microphone that is attached to your shirt before you go to the bathroom.

5)  During a phys.ed. on call or when on yard duty, keep your head up.

6)  When walking in the hallway during class, always have a piece of paper in your hand and look like you are going somewhere.

7)   Be prepared to have to hold a parent teacher interview with the recovery room nurse after your colonoscopy.

8)  To end a parent interview, slowly stand up and look over the parent's shoulder even if no one is there.

9)  While giving the lecture on plagiarism, always sit on the student's desk you suspect of cheating on the assignment.

10)  Go to the bathroom before the bell rings even if you don't have to go.

11)  Check your fly and if a teacher has tucked her dress into her pantyhose...tell her.

12)  Your kid's teacher cares just as much as you care for other peoples' kids.

13)  Parents will ask you for parenting advice even though you could be their child.

14)  Everyone at a dinner party will know how to do your job and will want to tell you how to do it.

15)  You will lie about your chosen career when you are having your hair cut.

16)  You will be asked to use your teacher voice at a function at some point and you will be stunned by the power it holds over adults.

17)  When on a field trip, you will have to pay for at least one student's lunch.  You will not get the money back.

18)  The student you are having trouble with, will help you in some capacity later in life.  She may be your recovery room nurse after your colonoscopy.

19)  Your colleagues can be your salvation or your destruction.

20)  There will be days where you can't believe they pay you to do this and days where there isn't enough money in the world to do it.

20th Century Teacher in a 21st Century Classroom

Chalk is limestone, a porous substance comprised of the skeletal remains of sea creatures. I have spent my life writing with the bones of dead fish.

The future doesn't look good for chalk.

The landscape in the classrooms I teach in provides little room for the scratching of fish bone on slate.  In order for me to scrawl my archaic cursive, with the dust of the dead, I have to find a patch of board in the classroom.  That ground is now squeezed between a smart-board and a laptop, usually cut off by a cart full of Chromebooks.  It is a precious as a vacant lot in Toronto.

I am an anachronism, like a wrist watch in a gladiator movie, I am out of time.  It's the 21st Century you know.  The century of the "learner centered classroom."  The century of the "flipped classroom".  The century of "bring your own device." The century of screens, of virtual learning.  The century of "teacher as facilitator."  The current gurus tell us, "We don't need a sage on the stage." It's the century of the "innovator's mindset."  The century of the Google classroom.

Professor John O'Connor is a sage.  John taught me many English courses at the University of Toronto. He is a master of his subject.  His mind is as sharp as any I have ever met and his eyes lock on you in a class discussion and you know that there is no place to hide.  John taught me a very valuable lesson in the 1980's; he taught me to never ask a question that Google could answer. He did this before there was Google.

Sister Joan Peck was a sage.  She taught me grade eleven math. Sister Joan would snap her fingers at me, and smile at me and say "Come on de Souza, come on kid, I know you can do it."  Sometimes the only reason I was able to do it was because of her voice encouraging me.  Some of you who have had me as a teacher have heard her echo in my teaching.

Ultimately these memorable teachers saw me.  Their interactions with me were real, organic and human.   They saw me for who I was, they saw me for who I might become.

I sometimes worry about the future of our classrooms.  Our very best, our very brightest teachers are giving in to the gurus, many of whom have rarely stood in front of a class.  They are listening to the slick patter; it is a sales pitch, snake oil masquerading as innovation.   These gurus are the migrating birds of education, heard for a short time, then gone.

If I could scrawl a message, on a little patch of ground, with tools from ancient times, it would say:   

Teacher be the center of your classroom.  Earn that center by keeping your mind vibrant and your skills sharp.  Bring the student to your subject and show the students who each can be.

Be a sage, use the chalk.

Smashing Gauntlets

Sandra Jensen reads hate to the Alberta Legislature

Sandra Jensen is pounded by misogynistic insults because she crosses the floor of the Alberta legislature to join the NDP.  She reads the insults aloud in the house and her male colleagues sit in silence, some of them stunned, some of them nodding and perhaps, some of them, wishing they had said it.  If any of them has been a teacher, he or she has heard it before.

In secondary schools, female teachers can wade through this type of behavior, this culture of hate, for long periods of time.  Like Sandra Jensen, the hate springs from the constituency they serve. Fortunately Ms. Jensen does not have to spend day after day with it but female secondary teachers can end up swimming in it for long periods of time.

Now, some of my colleagues may like to deny this behaviour exists and to be perfectly candid, currently at my school, I think we have managed to stamp it out for now,  but I have seen it rear its head on several occasions and it will do so again.  The behavior first appears as a gauntlet.  Young men line either side of the hall, leaning against the lockers and they use this gauntlet to rate female students, harass what they perceive to be weaker males and attempt to intimidate teachers. Their language is foul, their behaviour, boorish.  It is like a pack trying to mark its territory .

In good schools the teachers own the halls.  Good teachers know the school.  They move through all parts of it.  They take different paths to their classrooms and they go out of their way to find students who look like they might be alone.  They are in the halls between classes, before school, after school and they walk them with their ears and eyes wide open.   They make eye contact with everyone, they call students by name as they move.

Good administrators walk the halls too.  They know their students, they know their teachers.  They visit all the areas of the school, starting with a daily and unannounced visit to the darker places:  the smoking pits, the areas outside bathrooms and locker rooms.  When a teacher reports an incident in a hallway, the good administrator knows that, in this case, there is no student side of the incident.

Let's learn the lesson of Jordan Manners

For the most part, the society recognizes the work teachers do in classrooms but it rarely recognizes the work in halls and cafeterias and gymnasiums.  Society expects and gets the delivery of curriculum but the truth is, it is the socialization of young adults that is the essential work of schools.  A good school spends as much time developing an environment of fairness, equality, empathy and compassion as it does in the delivery of curriculum.  It demands that every person in the building behave in a manner that is respectful and polite. It makes these demands in a myriad of ways.

Confronting kids in a hallway is not for the faint of heart:  "You take off your hat in a public place."  "You make eye contact when I speak to you."  "Stand up straight."  "You address me as sir."  "Move along." "Are you alright?" "Get to class."

This is the essential work that the critics of our system and the critics of teachers never acknowledge goes on.  The "can't do, teach" crowd never recognizes the subtlety, the consistency, the strength of will and the determination that is required to foster the values of compassion, empathy, and equality in young people. My hunch is that they never recognize this work because they miss the gauntlets they formed in high schools in the "good old days."

When female legislators are attacked, when female reporters are harassed at sporting matches, when rudeness goes unchallenged on streetcars, teachers recognize the behaviour.  We've seen it before, we try to stamp it out and when we see it manifest itself in these places, we recognize we have more work to do.

A Literary Dog Walk

Come on girls, let's go.  Just let me get your leashes on.  Yes, it's a little cold tonight but we've got to do it. Let's go.  Let's just turn out of the driveway here and head down the street.  Who knows how far we will go and who we will meet tonight.

Ya I know, the couch was more comfy.  Ok, just  have a sniff there.

Hey, there's  Bob Ewell, the red neck cracker in To Kill a Mockingbird.  Seems appropriate that he would join us on the walk tonight.  It's right around now, after the American Thanksgiving and the Harvest Pageant, when he attacks Scout and then breaks Gem's arm.  Scout is dressed like a ham and cannot see the attack.

So glad Bob's here.  He's a first class bigot and a second class white trash citizen in Maycomb County. Remember how he seeks to satiate his anger at being white and poor in the deep south by accusing a black man, Tom Robinson, of raping his daughter Mayella?  He blames "the other" for his problems and a large portion of the town points the finger right along with him.  No worries about you becoming dated Bob, you're alive and well and living in all the places where blaming others for your own circumstance is now known as "populism."

Come on girls, let's keep moving.

I hate Bob Ewell.  Well, sometimes I hate him.  Somehow it's not an open and shut case with him. It's like when Walter Cunningham comes to lunch with Scout and she's amazed that the kid puts syrup on his lunch. Atticus tells Scout not to judge.  Walk a mile in his shoes Scout. Somehow I end up feeling for the Ewells. Even Mayella.  She's just lonely and invites Tom Robinson in to talk.  Good Ol' Bob here, beats on her.   How the hell is it possible for me to feel empathy for that red neck cracker?

The dogs are leading me home but I am not with them.  I am in Maycomb Georgia with Scout and Gem, Atticus and Boo, Mayella and Tom.  Bob Ewell started it all by emerging out of the darkness into my imagination on that first turn of our walk on this dark November night.

We all carry our work days home with us.  Bosses and clients and issues and budgets  and deadlines cloud our minds after dinner, while we watch TV or take our kids to hockey.  I've certainly lugged a few troubling classes along with me on the nightly dog walk but I have been luckier than a lot of people.  I've spent my life carrying around characters, talking about fictions.

I've spent a large part of each working day living in fiction...and that...that has made all the...never mind.

Let's go in.  Let's get in the house...As For Me and My House...

Reflections on an Election

Was it a sunny day after Trump's election?

I know it was like waking from a bad dream and then having that realization "my God, that really happened." My head is filled with questions.   How is it possible that Trump won?  How can a unqualified man defeat a qualified woman?  How is it possible that the things I value, the things I teach, critical thought, rational argumentation, kindness, compassion, tolerance, have all been overthrown by those who believe in a piece of rhetoric so ridiculous as Make America Great Again?

There's fear too.  You just wonder how far this type of demagoguery can go, will go.  You don't need too fertile an imagination to envision mass deportations, the arrest of political opponents and the intimidation of the free press, to make you run and want to hide your children.

My mind spins towards darkness, it struggles to find light.  Then I read the Facebook posts of young people I have known through teaching and coaching:

From Nancy Tombe:  "Feeling so very disgusted and so very disappointed by America this morning.  I'm also so very sad for those of you that didn't choose hate, and now must live with the repercussions of those that did.

This from Tori Allen about Kellie Leitch, the hateful Tory leadership candidate who espouses many of Trump's ideas:  "Canada, shut this down now.  And by shut down, I mean take it seriously, figure out who this appeals to, why and how to bridge that divide before it turns into a chasm."

This from Joanna Kyriazis:  "I know many of us want to turn to fear and blame.  But those are the attitudes and approaches that led us to these results.  We need to stop "othering" and focus on what we share--a desire to be able to provide for our families,to feel a sense of fairness and belonging and to live in a society in which we feel safe."

This from Brendan Fernandes:  ""I am numb, searching out what I am feeling-enraged?  Perhaps angry? Something is burning underneath.  I know that as an artist I can use this to create.  As an immigrant, a queer, a person of colour and a feminist, I will raise a deeper, more powerful, more important voice to reflect my issues and defend the right to be different.

This from Sophie Bisnaire:  "It's been too calm and comfortable for us.   The majority of our privileged generation knows nothing of loss and survival.  We've been spoon-fed, sheltered and brainwashed all of our lives.  maybe the West needed to get shaken up a bit in order for us to wake up, actively participate in the real worlds and fight for what we believe in.    As I'm typing this, I'm realizing that all this is, is history repeating itself..It's about to get very interesting, so join me in growing a backbone and brace yourselves.

You can hear the resolve in their voices.  They remind me of Maya Angelou's Inaugural Poem for the wrong Clinton:

Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.

These young faces, these young eyes, they ensure that the pulse of a different, better day will arrive.

Of Youth and Age

"Your young man shall see visions and your old man shall dream dreams."

                                                                         Francis Bacon, from Of Youth and Age.

In my dreams, school boards would plan wisely, teachers would be hired on merit and the Province would produce only the teachers it needed.  In my dreams, I would be a mentor, teaching and coaching the very teacher who would replace me in September.  We would strike a balance between the needs of youth and age.

When it came time to retire, I would have to give the school board 18 months notice if I wished to participate in the mentorship program as a mentor.  This would allow the board and the principal time to find my replacement, my intern.

In my final year of teaching, my intern would meet me on the first day of school and we would begin our transition together; me to retirement, he or she to full time, permanent employment.  At the end of our year together, the school would get an experienced and fully qualified, energetic teacher and I would transition to retirement with grace.

I would carry the teaching load at first.  My intern would be learning.  I would teach them everything: long range planning, classroom management skills, reporting and how to be an active and vibrant member of a school community.  We would work together throughout the fall, concentrating on the subtleties of teaching, the art of it.  I'd teach them how your body language controls a classroom,  how to use your eyes more and your voice less.   I'd teach them how you know whether a kid read the book, simply by looking at them.   I'd teach them how to speak to a parent, a principal and how to manage time.  I'd teach them the importance of their association and their colleagues. I would teach them how to be a professional.

Early in November,  the intern would begin to teach.  I would help him or her through the closing of a semester.  We would do final reports,  make those important  calls and begin the planning for the next semester.

In January, my intern would begin receiving pay and mine would be reduced. My time in the classroom would begin to be reduced and the intern's responsibility would begin to increase.  Her salary would rise after each glowing performance appraisal, mine would begin to move to my retirement income.  I would be in the class less, I would be beginning that transition to retired life.

By spring,  my intern would be in charge.  Shortly after the second round of parent interviews, we would begin to work on the final of three performance appraisals.  A lot would be riding on these appraisals because, along with a principal's report,  the interns ability to secure permanent employment with our board, would hang in the balance.  My last official duty would be to write that report.

In June, there would be a simple ceremony.  I would hand my keys to my intern.  I'd be celebrated by my colleagues and friends and family.   The new teacher would be welcomed to the staff and would be heading to one of the few sanctioned faculties of education for the summer.

In September both of us would be ready for our new worlds.  Ah, to dream dreams.

Let's Talk About Johnny

It may be because it is report card season but sometimes I like to read this quote aloud in a metallic, machine like voice;  "Excuse me, I have to go. Somewhere there is crime happening. "  Then I try this in the same voice:  "the student uses a variety of texts with some proficiency."

The first quote is from the classic 1987 film RoboCop and the second is the ever popular comment number 111 from the secondary school report card comment bank.  I know, it's one of my favourites too! Sometimes when it's late at night and I am a little punchy, I like to read the comment bank aloud in a Schwarzenegger accent, circa Terminator One.

There's no shame in it.

RoboCop was the coolest of movies. It came at a time where we were on the cusp of the computer and the Internet.  It was also the year I was at the Faculty of Education.  It seemed like the entire conscious of the society was focused on the tension between human and machine.  You could see that tension in RoboCop as the human heart of the police officer tried to emerge from the technological cage in which it had been trapped.

Teachers and parents and students are trapped in a similar technological cage.  The primary mode of communication between parents and teachers is the report card and the parent interview.  The report card has been co-opted in the name of efficiency by technology, reducing reporting to a list of events or the frequency of a student's performance.  "Sally should make better use of class time to complete homework." (comment #59), setting aside the contradiction of homework being completed in class, the comment doesn't tell us anything about Sally.  Johnny has "some use of features of formal and informal communication." (comment # 734).  Can anyone tell me what Johnny has been doing?

I gave up using the canned comments long ago, choosing to write my own comments to the parents of my students.  Not every teacher is comfortable with this and I am sure many a parent would have preferred that I had hidden my assessment of their child in edu-babble but I think that at least they knew I knew their kid. The idea of all teachers writing their own, hand crafted and original comments, must terrify boards of education.

So we remain trapped by the technological structures that surround reporting.  If this is true, then our last best chance to talk to each other, is the parent interview.  If we are ever to have an honest and important discussion of our children, it takes place in the gyms and classrooms on parent nights but it will require some work on all of our parts.

Parents, you need to go to interviews.  It may shock you, but the majority of parents don't go to interviews. You need to go, listen, question and help the teacher know your child better.  Teachers, close the computer, put away the print out, shut down the screens.   Look across the desk and begin with "I know Johnny and there are some things I want to tell you."

No one is allowed to do this in a Schwarzenegger accent.

When a home becomes a house.

For those of you not in education, you might not know that this week in Ontario, EQAO, (Education Quality Accountability Office), moved its test of grade 10 literacy skills on line.  Grade 10 students across the province logged on to write the test and the entire system crashed leaving students, teachers and administrators frustrated and angry. Setting aside the irony of that organization's title, after all there is no quality nor any accountability coming from it, the whole mess does raise some interesting issues.

Mrs. Pearce had to prepare us for our fire safety drill.  No doubt that is what the system called for.  I was in grade 3 and there was a movie that we had to watch.    I remember the people jumping out of burning buildings.  Then we were told that we would have a fire drill.  "WALK ("DON'T RUN, DON'T RUN") out of the school."  It isn't a bell, the fire drill, it's a buzzing sound; a vibration that throttles in my chest.

My only recurring nightmare is of people jumping out of a burning building.

I love Mrs. Pearce.  She was kind and caring and yes, very pretty.  We did clay models in her class and she had us bring in a small box to store our "favourite words."  Her classroom was kind, it was home.  The last thing she would have wanted to do was cause any one of us anxiety, or stress or nightmares.   She was told to prepare us for the fire drill and the movie came along with that preparation.  She was doing her job, following the rules.

Teachers and particularly administrators, are rule followers.  They are people who have succeeded in systems by doing what they say and doing it well.  A Superintendent of Education didn't get there by questioning a rule.

Richard Jones, the director for assessment at EQAO, didn't arrive there by swimming against the current.

When the EQAO fry up occurred, I was in a class of ESL students and students who had failed the test in their previous attempt.  There was stress in that room.  At one point when we had the students try to log on for a final time, a girl in front of me looked up at me and with a great tremor in her voice cried "It's in French now!"

This was her fire drill.  This may well be her recurring nightmare.    I followed the rules, just like Mrs. Pearce and my rule following hurt a kid.  I let the personal become the impersonal,  a home become a house. All of us decided the person was not as important as the data.

In March, when EQAO  asks teachers to sacrifice kids one more time for the accuracy of their data points, maybe we should break some rules.

"Hey Teacher..."

Condom.  There, I said it.

In 1987 when I started teaching religion (yes, religion), I was forbidden from uttering that word until a student mentioned it first.  Yes, we were in the middle of a frightening epidemic of AIDS and yes, the single best way to prevent the spread of the disease was ....well... you know.  So what was a young teacher, with fine hair, parted in the middle (stop laughing) to do?  When the time came to discuss ethics and moral decision making around sex, I entered the class, wrote C-O-N-D-O-M on the board and waited for someone to read it aloud.

Teachers need to teach what their students need to know even if it runs counter to power and to culture.

As Canadians, we puzzle over how, even after the reprehensible behaviour of Trump, he manages to maintain a core support somewhere around 40% of the American population.  If you haven't had a chance, check out this site Five Thirty Eight.   Look at states where Donald Trump has over a 90% chance of winning.  Those states are: Arkansas, Kentucky Mississippi, Louisiana, Alabama, Oklahoma, Tennessee, Wyoming, Utah, Nebraska, Idaho, West Virginia.   Of those states, according to Talk Poverty , only Nebraska has a rate of higher education in the top half of the Union.

Clinton, in one of her weaker moments, called these people  "deplorable" and I will forgive this categorization since she basically has had to spend countless hours with The Donald, and who after having to do that, wouldn't be a little edgy from time to time?  Trump's supporters are not deplorable.  They are in need of quality public education and brave teachers.

Unfortunately, some in these states and a few in our country, argue that education is a form of social engineering or perhaps in the words of Roger Watters "thought control".  You remember the song:  "We don't need no education, we don't need no thought control.  Hey Teacher leave those kids alone. " Teachers, quite rightly, cringe at this song. Yes, the double negative is enough but no Roger, we won't leave those kids alone.

It's not thought control or left wing propaganda or political bias when you are introducing concepts such as; critical thinking, basic human rights and human dignity, equality, fairness and most importantly for our current situation, decency.   How did we get to the point where teaching about these ideas can seem revolutionary and counter culture to a segment of the population?  So we beat on, boats against the tide, teaching students that equity, fairness, (safe sex), kindness and human decency are essential.

We teach what our students need to know and I offer this little tip for you.  The next time you hear that Pink Floyd song, insert a little Bruce Cockburn.  It doesn't go with the melody but it will lift your spirits.

Hey Teacher, "kick at the darkness until it bleeds daylight."

The Truth About Teachers and their Kids

Greg Puchulski use to call me "All State".  I believe this was his subtle way of telling me I only made the football team in high school because my Dad was the teacher/coach and not because I had "good hands". There's nothing quite like the sophisticated wit of the Oshawa bully.

Now Greg may have had a point.  I did weigh 117 lbs in grade nine and I did drop my fair share of balls but no more so than all the other grade nines who made the team.  I think what made Greg's insights so helpful was the fact that it was my first introduction to the idea that when you are the kid of a teacher or a teacher with kids, there is no absolute truth.

You make the team because of your Dad; you get a good grade because of Mom.  Your child is singled out because "teacher kids should be better".  Your child is victimized because they are perceived to have some inside track.  Of course, none of this is true or helpful. It's just hurtful and it remains hurtful 40 years later.

Thanks Greg.

Having a teacher in the family does have advantages greater than shared holidays.  It is true that you can be part of your child's life in a more intimate way and it is true again that you have the opportunity to understand their lives a little bit more than parents in other walks of life.  I have been able to know my children's friends far more than many parents.  I've been able to share some of their great triumphs and some of their worst defeats because I've been on the court with them when they've happened.

But the bruises that this intimacy inflicts are deep.   There is no doubt that I have been harder on my own children in games and in school than on any of yours.  Too often lines got blurred and it can be very difficult for both child and parent to separate the roles of coach and father.  Worse, it can be very difficult for the children of teachers to see their accomplishments as purely a result of their hard work.

On this Thanksgiving weekend, I am thankful for my kids and I am thankful for you and yours as well.

Your kids have forced me to remain active and engaged and many of them have given their all to me on the basketball court. Your kids have made me laugh almost everyday and they have kept me awake some nights (not so thankful for that).  Your kids have pushed me to be better and have challenged my thinking and enriched me.

I'm thankful for you because you've done a great job with them and you've been patient and understanding with me and my colleagues.

I am thankful for my kids for all of the reasons you might expect but for this writing, I am thankful for them because they made me a better teacher for your kids.   If you had told me that years ago, before I had them, I would have been rightly offended.   Some of you reading this might say " you don't have to have kids to be a good teacher." You are right but just like my making the football team, it's not the complete truth.  My kids have shown me how even the smallest thing a teacher does can be a very big thing and before I had them, I really didn't appreciate this fully.

We have a conversation in our house where my wife and I mitigate the role of the teacher because we want our kids to be responsible for their own success and those kids of ours, well, they counter that argument pretty well (got those logical minds from their Mom).  They argue that the teacher makes all the difference.

Like everything the truth lies somewhere between.  But without them I wouldn't fully understand just how important a teacher is.  I'm thankful for that.

Happy Thanksgiving.

The Treadmillers

This may surprise you but I'm a gifted runner.  Yep, looking at me now you'd be shocked but when I was tested for running in grade 3, I tested gifted.  Well, my Mom says I was gifted at running.  I missed the standard for admittance by a few seconds so I am actually a precocious runner but that doesn't matter. What matters is, I was identified as a gifted runner and got to join the Treadmillers.

I had to switch schools to join.  We were known as Treadmillers because the special room we had at the school was filled with treadmills.  We had a special teacher.  They let us know that they were gifted teachers for gifted Treadmillers.

Our teachers really liked the Treadmillers.  And what wasn’t to like, I mean, we treadmilled without being asked.  They didn’t have to deal with all those other kids who just ran hither and yon, all willy nilly like. They liked the fact there wasn’t a lot of us.  What was even better was that we looked like our teachers and a lot of my fellow Treadmillers grew up in teacher families so it was like we were just one big family.

Ya, that's it, the Treadmillers were like a family.   We sometimes hung out with the other kids at recess and sometimes we even ran against them in the schoolyard and in the later grades, some of those kids beat us but they weren't Treadmillers.   They ran outside and they had an advantage there.

When I went to high school what was really nice was they didn't make us run against anybody.  The school figured the test in grade three was good enough so we were able to keep all the Treadmillers together for four years. We even got special Treadmiller field trips that we didn't have to pay for. You know, when I look back on those days, I can really only remember the Treadmillers.

Those were good times.  The more we treadmilled, the more credit we got.  Everyone was happy and thought it was a good idea for us to treadmill more.  We got twice as much treadmilling as the other kids and my Mom bought me a special treadmill at home so I could be the best of all of the Treadmillers. Some of the Treadmillers started to get rashes.  I was OK though.  The facial ticks went away every summer.

So finally, the big day of graduation came and I sat with all the other Treadmillers.  There were eleven us. We started with forty.  I was so proud. Do you know that we won all the big awards that night?  Now it's true that some of the other kids ran faster times but we Treadmillers had our times reduced by 5% for all of our hard work and dedication.

I found out years later that we weren't the only ones.  Did you know there were others?  Some places actually built schools for Treadmillers.  To this day parents will line up to get into a prestigious Treadmill Academy. And the idea has really caught on.  There are even schools for Abacusers and Paintbrushers and Orchestrators and Basketballers and Dramatizers. Those lucky kids.

My running never really was the same after the Treadmillers.  The other kids made track teams and some Treadmillers did pretty well but I never quite measured up.  I don't run anymore.

But you know I am a gifted runner right?

The Memory of Geography

Hey, can you help me out?  We can't leave until we set the alarm and we can't set the alarm until we know all the doors are locked. Can you come with me through the school and help me check the doors?  Come on, I will tell you stories as we go. Schools are filled with stories you know.

Let's start on the third floor and work our way down.  Just rattle the door knobs to make sure they are locked.  Do you remember this hall?  Right there in front of that door, that's where I saw Ed for the last time. He died that weekend.  He had a head full of curly hair and he was in his soccer uniform. He had that big grin and there were girls with him.  Almost every time I walk past here I think of him, I think I see him. I hope the place remembers him when I'm gone.

These are all locked.  Lets go to the second floor.

See at the corner there, there's where the entire school bottle necks.  You wouldn't believe the jostling and pushing that goes on at this corner. I remember seeing Karen there; her glasses smudged, looking for her EA. She's so upset.  All the kids are walking around her, making sure not to bump into her because they see how upset she is.  Someone's always getting jostled here; someone is always looking out for someone here.

We just have the first floor left.

One time I saw a young couple break up right there.  Oh and over there, that's where the basketball team huddles before big games.  I remember a girl crying with a few of her friends trying to comfort her over there. And right there, near those windows, that's where the tech teacher had five guys following him.  He was teaching them how to install a wooden statue they had carved.  See look, it's still there.

Anne Michael's says that geography has memory. I see that in the geography of a school. Late at night after a game or a show, or after parent night, or in the quiet hours of the morning, schools tell us who we are.  They remind us, that for a brief and fleeting moment, we knew each other.

Thanks for your help.

New Teachers: The Nomads of Education

Entropy, from a thermodynamic point of view, is the inability of a system to convert thermal energy into work (Quick writing tip: always begin with the thermodynamic hook.  People eat that up.).  Entropy represents the inefficiency of a system; the degree of disorder or uncertainty in a system and there is no better word to describe the current state of young teachers. 

New teachers across the country live in an educational no man's land of  the long term occasional position. This oxymoronic position, as it is neither long term, nor occasional, has allowed boards and governments to create a permanent underclass of teachers.What it has done is create the actual definition of entropy; a teaching life of uncertainty, disorder and inefficiency.

So what you might mumble into your coffee mug.  So the young teacher has no certainty, lots of young people face that. So what, they are in disorder, running from one school to the next, you did that too, you say, as you build your personal myth.  So what the system is inefficient, wasting the resources of the young, their energy, their idealism.  You were similarly abused you mutter as you pour yourself more wine.

The cost of these educational nomads is high. Relationships between young teachers and their students are very rarely allowed to develop for more than a term or a semester. There is a high price to pay for these truncated relationships but we have no way calculating that price.  The young teacher is not given the essential opportunity of honing his or her craft, building a course and working with mentors for not just months, but for years. How do we measure the loss of this transfer of experience from one generation to the next?

Not to worry.  The young teacher is learning.  They are learning that loyalty and merit are not as important as seniority and adaptability. They are learning that they are workers not professionals and they are learning that their value only lies in their ability to fill gaps that no one else wants to fill. What is the cost of those lessons?

Most systems do a poor job of capturing all of their inefficiencies.  Education is particularly bad at it because the value of loyalty, the value of interpersonal relationships and the value of honing a teaching craft is difficult to measure.  What is easy to measure is savings that boards gain from not paying new teachers' benefits, from keeping them a temporary work force.  If employers keep new teachers off balance, they create a workforce that is just thankful to have a job and when you do that, you save money for a long, long time.

The sad conclusion from this is, we truly know the cost of everything and the value of nothing.

The Experts At The Fence

There's something in this painting and this interpretation of it (The Meeting of The School Trustees by Robert Harris) that resonates with me.

Who does get to decide what is taught and how it is taught?

A governmental bureaucrat, a school trustee, a Chair of a board, a Superintendent, a consultant perhaps, all would say that they have a role in what is taught and how it is taught. No doubt there are many of our neighbours, fellas we play hockey with, friends that we have dinner with, who also believe that they should have a say.

Finally, there are the many teachers who believe they know what is best.

"You work for us" says the Trustee who can't read.  Today he appears as a relative or even a friend who wades into the educational discussion with "The problem with education today....".  There is no end to the people who seem to know what is best for teachers and students and education. Many of them are leaning on school yard fences as they watch their child walk into an elementary school.

I am always stunned by the surety of those who offer unsolicited advice about education.   How are they so sure, while I, after having been in it all my life, still wonder if there is or ever has been, one true path.

Perhaps the problem isn't education but it is how we talk about it.  Maybe we need some guidelines as we address the issue.  Let's start with three.

First, if you haven't been in a classroom lately, maybe the discussion should stay on the philosophical side. Let's stick to what you want out of an education system, what goals it should have, what role you want it to play in a democratic society.  I've built stuff but when I hire a carpenter, I don't tell her how many nails to use.  I give her the big picture of what I want and leave her to it. Let's stay out of the nuts and bolts about delivery. Chances are you really don't know how much home work the teacher should assign.  You probably haven't done the research on new math and you really don't know which approach is better when it comes to language and reading.

Second, your personal mythology should remain just that; mythological and personal.  If you start a sentence with "back in the day " or "when I was in school", you're living in myth. Yes, I know the teachers were mean when you were a kid and yes, you had to know your times table and you MEMORIZED! them. But as an offering into the development of a modern education system, the construction of curriculum and its delivery, your gift of memorization and your horror at the hands of a cruel teacher remain good story and largely irrelevant to the conversation.

Third, if you have an agenda other than the development of literate, critical thinking citizens in a healthy democracy, it should stay out of our discussions about education.   If you're a person who wants evolution taught as just another theory or you want workers not citizens or you think that references to sex in health are yukky, you're looking for a discussion about things other than a modern, progressive education system.

Finally, for active teachers, take inspiration from the painting; the teacher's strength, her determination to stand up to the patriarchy and the privilege.  Rely on your experience, on your education, on the research that informs your practice, on your judgement, on your collaboration with colleagues and on your knowledge of your students.  These will give you her strength.
       

At Christmas, they ask "what did ya get". On Labour Day they ask, "who did ya get".

I was nervous 30 years ago today.  I had laid out my tweed jacket, a corduroy tie and slacks (yes, slacks) and tossed and turned in my bed as I waited for what was to come.  That was my first Labour Day as a teacher and today is my last.  After 30 years, there's still some nervousness, maybe a little bit of trepidation but really more of a feeling of anticipation of so many "lasts" to come.

Many things have changed; I've lost the jacket and tie, and the slacks.  Replaced them with more casual clothing.  I've lost my hair, some more of my eye sight and even an inch in height.  I've gained weight, perhaps gained some wisdom and gained Google.

Everything has changed except teachers, students and learning.

Harry Bruce wrote in his classic essay "Labor Day is the dreaded bell in the school yard of my mind", people don't ask on Labour Day "what did ya get?"  They ask "who'd ya get?"  And for good or for bad, millions of students and thousands of teachers will enter the class room tomorrow wondering "who'd I get."

So teachers, on this my last Labour Day of anxiety, my last sleepless school eve, here's who I hope you get.  I hope you get a student who is a character; one who makes you laugh even when you are trying to keep a straight face.  I also hope and know you will, meet a student who will wow you with his or her abilities and brilliance.  I hope you meet some students that you make a difference to and that they tell you about it years later.  I hope you meet some colleagues that make you want to be better. Finally, I hope you meet at least one student, and again, I know you will, who you don't reach, can't figure out and ultimately fail at helping.  That student will make you a far better teacher next Labour Day.

And students, on this the eve of my last first day, after having spent 48 years in a school, and having seen the best of teachers, both as a student and a teacher, here's the teacher I hope you get.  I hope you get a teacher who errs on the side of kindness.  I hope you get a teacher who sees you for the person you are and the one you will become.  I hope you get a memorable teacher, a character that you never forget.  I hope you meet a teacher this year who makes you see something new, one who awakens something you had no idea was in you. I hope you meet a teacher who pushes you so hard, you get angry.   I hope you get a teacher that you laugh with and one who says hello, who calls your name all the time, who you admire and respect, and who listens to you.

The clothes are laid out for tomorrow.   The back pack is packed and ready to go. Now it's only a matter of being the people we hope we get.