The Power of Failure- Reflections from my First Year Coaching

          As a former elementary classroom teacher, the idea of modeling instructional strategies in middle school classrooms scared the bejesus out of me. And now here I was tasked with modeling in the class from “Dangerous Minds.”  When I had last set foot in this seventh grade classroom for an observation I nearly had to dodge a punch as I walked in the door. I’m exaggerating, of course, but in all honesty I thought I was being “punked” - that someone had set this up as joke, maybe as an initiation into coaching.

         Students were shouting out disrespectful comments toward their peers as well as their teacher.  They were throwing things at each other, passing notes, and basically doing anything and everything except learning.  I kept waiting for the teacher or students to point at me and say, “Gotcha!” and then go back to working diligently on their assignment.  But that never happened.  This was in fact the class from hell.

         So, when I was asked to model a lesson for this teacher I wondered if I would come out of it alive.  Needless to say, I bombed the lesson. In all fairness I “managed” the class as well as I could. They were respectful . . . enough. But, there was no glory on my part.  I did not walk into that class and “show the teacher how it was done.” Coaches are not without egos.  In all truthfulness, we like to think that we know what we are doing and are pretty damn good at it.  So, when our modeled lessons turn into disasters, we can taste our pride as it slips down our throats.

         As I left the classroom the teacher looked at me curiously and said, “Thanks?”  “Great -” I thought. “My first chance to prove to these middle school teachers that it wouldn’t be a worthless endeavor to work with me, and I ruined it.”  To make matters worse, I had to model for this same teacher the very next day. 

         I couldn’t sleep that night.  Finally I resigned to simply do the best I could, and to use my failure to inspire reflection on my practice, just as I ask teachers to do.  I had gotten so caught up in needing to appear “an expert” to the teachers for whom I was modeling that I had neglected to think about the students. What was it they needed?

         The next day I went in vulnerable but with nothing to lose.  I took off the “expert” hat and was simply myself.  As a classroom teacher I was always pretty laid back, and if I must admit it, pretty darn funny.  The students responded so much better to me than they did the “expert” that was in their room the previous day, and the results were miraculous.  I didn’t want to leave when the lesson was over, and neither did the students.  They did FANTASTIC, and the lesson was a success.  As I walked out the door the teacher was glowing and called down the hall to me, “That was amazing!”

         I cannot decide which was more valuable: failing in front of that teacher, or successfully modeling in her classroom.  I think it is crucial that we as coaches do not get hung up on being the experts.  First of all, we aren’t.  And second of all, students and teachers alike don’t need experts. They need people who are willing to be vulnerable and real because learning from our failures is as necessary to teaching and learning as success is.

Validating Teachers- Reflections from my First Year Coaching

Post-observations are possibly my favorite part of instructional coaching.  I feel like they are an artful dance in which I have to master the balance of validating teacher’s efforts and instructional skills while encouraging reflection and improvement.  I am always the most nervous when sitting down with a teacher with whom I have yet to build a solid relationship.

         Yet, coaching is not always as organic as it would ideally be.  Sometimes the district’s model is set up so that teachers have to complete observations before an authentic partnership is built.  So, on this day I was particularly frustrated when sitting down with a middle school teacher for a post-observation.  I really get discouraged when I feel that these meetings with teachers are just hoops to jump through so that they meet the requirement of “collaborating with their coach.”

         As we sat down, the teacher told me that she had received the observation paperwork I had sent her and after reading through it should could hardly contain her emotions.  She had called a friend in tears telling her friend how great it was to hear positive feedback on her teaching.

         Now, I have to be honest. I was truly confused. Tears?  I thought back to what I’d written.  “Teacher circulates the room to check for understanding . . . Teacher calls on students randomly . . . Students are engaged and on task.”  Surely these comments did not evoke such emotion.

         But then she went on. “All these years I have been teaching, and I’ve never known if I was a good teacher or not.  This is the first time I have really gotten feedback that the things I am doing in my classroom are working.  Now I think I’m brave enough to have you come observe where I really need help:  sixth period. I just don’t know how to get them under control at all.”

         Then it hit me. Teaching can be such an isolating job.  We close the doors to our classrooms and hope that we are doing the right thing, but rarely does anybody give us concrete feedback and a much needed pat on the back.  It doesn’t take much to fill a teacher’s cup.  A simple “Yup- that’s exactly how you do it. Great job!” can move mountains.  Some of the most profound things we do as coaches can appear to be a hoop at first glance. 

         I think differently now about those “hoops” we sometimes jump through.  They are not hoops at all really, but investments in teachers.  While a routine observation may not drastically change instruction, it may instill in teachers feelings of confidence and validation.  And teachers who feel acknowledged for the great things they do also feel empowered to do more.

Teachers Matter - Reflections from my First Year Coaching

When I applied for this job last year, I had hoped that I would be able to make an impact on others in my field. I had no idea, however, how much of an impact teachers whom I hadn’t even met yet would have on me.

Last week I sat down with a teacher I had just recently met for a post-observation meeting. I had observed her guided reading groups, and we were going through the routine questions that would inspire reflection on her practice.  Even now, I’m not sure how her reflection turned from a reflection on guided reading to a reflection on life, but by the end of our meeting we were both in tears.

This teacher was in her early thirties, like myself, and was a perfectionist in teaching and in life.  As we talked and related to each other’s philosophies and challenges, she began to talk about a battle she had been facing with her health- a battle that was so serious that her doctors weren’t sure she would make it through the school year.  Through her tears, she told me that she wasn’t sure why she was opening up to me… that she always tries to be strong and not lose it in front of her family or coworkers. 

Having just met her, I felt embarrassed that our conversation on guided reading now seemed quite meaningless in comparison to what she was dealing with.  I apologized to her that this coaching thing must seem pretty stupid at a time like this when so much was on the line for her.  She was a great teacher.  She really didn’t need me at all.  And here we were talking about guided reading when she wasn’t sure she would even live to see her children grow.

Later that day, I received an e-mail from her thanking me.  She said that she apparently just needed someone to talk to and cry to- that focusing on teaching is what keeps her from thinking about what her life has in store for her- and that even though we didn’t make eye-opening reflections about instruction during our meeting, we did exactly what was needed in order for her to walk back in her classroom and not have to teach through tears.

The very next day I sat down with a librarian whom I had also just met since being hired on as a coach. We were collaborating on how to get more sixth grade classes into the library for lessons on how to efficiently navigate the library, and again, the conversation meandered.  I found myself listening to this new friend, who was thirty years my senior, talk about the recent death of her husband- how they battled cancer together, and he didn’t make it, but how she was still fighting her own fight. 

I felt so honored and humbled that for the second time that week someone whom I barely knew was opening up to me and trusting me with their most personal feelings and thoughts.  I let my new friend know that I was very grateful to be trusted with her feelings, and that I had been struggling with some personal things over the past few years that paled in comparison to the stories I had been hearing from teachers I with whom I was meeting. I told her that I had not made much of an impact on anyone I had been meeting with recently, but that I was profoundly changed.

Not only did I reflect on my own life, realizing how much I had to be thankful for, but I thought about all of the amazing educators out there, who in spite of all of the challenges life throws their way, are plowing ahead with fierce devotion, giving all that they have to their students and taking so seriously their calling to this career of service. 

Towards the end of our conversation, this librarian said to me, “I have to be honest, Amy.  When we were told that you would be our coach, I went to my principal and told her that I was offended that someone would think that this girl who wasn’t even a twinkle in her dad’s eye when I began teaching would come into my library and tell me what I should be doing.  I realize now that is not at all what this is about.  A few days ago I went back to my principal and told her I was wrong.  Teachers are dying to have someone to talk to and to go hand and hand with on their journey.  It has been a pleasure working with you.”

This was the biggest compliment and validation I have received as a coach.  When I was first trained for my new position, I heard that building relationships was the key to a successful partnership between the coach and the teacher.  Naively, I had looked at this as a “step” to implementing better instruction in the classroom- a means to an end, if you will.  I realize now that it is not a step at all.  We are in a people profession.  And, in a people profession it is so very important that we are all seen as people that matter. 

These two teachers I worked with faced extreme struggles.  Not every teacher is dealing with issues as serious as life and death, but we all bring our joys and sorrows with us to work. And if we are to care about the students in our classrooms, then we need to also care about their teachers… not because doing so will be a step in increasing student achievement, but because teachers are selfless, passionate, and amazingly strong individuals.  And they matter.

Confessions of a "Bad" Teacher

I used to be an awful teacher. After 15 years as an educator, I can finally admit this.

They say there are four kinds of teachers very generally speaking: high skill/high will, high will/low skill,  low skill/low will, and high skill/low will. Not only was I a bad teacher, but I was the worst kind of bad: high skill and low will. What this means is that I was more than capable of being effective. I had that natural charisma and command--or "with-it-ness"--that is sometimes hard to learn. I simply chose not to harness that skill in favor of just merely getting by.

You see, my whole life I'd been told that I was talented and special. I was a "talented and gifted" student in school; I was captain of the soccer team and president of my sorority in college; I was "student teacher of the year" before I was hired as a brand new fifth grade teacher; and I was ready to save the world my first year in education. But the truth is my first few years teaching I was the textbook Harry Wong teacher. I was in survival mode. And I was barely surviving.

I remember my first week in my very own classroom. I didn't even know where to start I was so overwhelmed, so like many teachers without clear direction or a sense of urgency and purpose, I spent my time making my classroom look pretty. As I was outlining construction paper stars with gold glitter I tried to ignore the nagging voice that kept creeping into my mind telling me that I had absolutely no clue exactly what it was that these 10-year-olds were supposed to come away with as a result of spending a year in my care.

The one "curriculum map" I'd seen had the months listed across the top and the subjects listed down the side, which was a nice start except that between the months and subjects there were only arrows going across the page like so: Math ------------------>, Reading----------------------> ...  So what this map told me was that from September to June I was to teach math, reading, writing, etc. No kidding. Because I didn't have time or know-how to pull out the standards newspaper (yes they were on newspaper at that time) and cross reference the standards with the table of contents in my ten-year-old textbooks (that were on a cart because I had to share them with two other teachers), I decided I could probably just figure out what I was teaching as I went.  I was talented. I could wing it. BIG MISTAKE.

I wasn't prepared for just how hard teaching was. As I mentioned earlier, I had natural ability. I was good with kids. The students loved me. I just didn't teach anything worth learning. What's worse is that I didn't have the desire to. Don't get me wrong; I cared a lot about the students. I just didn't quite care about much about the standards or initiatives. I was used to things coming easily to me in life, and frankly that had made me a little lazy and impatient. Teaching, as all educators know, is not something that one ever really perfects, and because I cared more about my own ego than my students' futures (apparently), I was more willing to buck the system than I was to try and fail.

Moreover, no one ever came into my room or gave me any feedback whatsoever as to how well I was doing or whether I was even doing what I was supposed to. Actually, if someone had even just told me what I was supposed to do at any point, it might have made somewhat of a difference. They didn't though, and I interpreted that absence of supervision as implied consent to do whatever I wanted...and that really, in the long run, it must not matter that much what I did since no one else seemed to care. Incompetence slowly brewed until it eventually became resignation and humiliation disguised as apathy.

My third year teaching, a new principal was transferred to our building. Instead of seeing me as a bad teacher to whom she either needed to turn a blind eye or rid the school of, she made me a teacher leader ... not just an adequate teacher, but a teacher leader.  You see, she must have known just how inadequate I was feeling. Had her goal simply been to make me less bad at what I did, I probably would have remained humiliated and continued to feel worthless, and that emotional state would have surely impacted my instruction and my students. However, instead of writing me off or discounting me, she worked hard to instill in me a sense of purpose, so that I knew exactly why my role as an intermediate teacher was crucial to my students' development and  to our staff's success, and then she had me reflect on how I could best improve my practice to realize that purpose. I piloted things for her in my classroom. I presented at staff meetings. Passion began to brew. Confidence began to take hold.

Essentially, she helped me to see that I mattered. I wish I could say that without her leadership I was selfless enough to put my own emotional needs aside and just be the kind of teacher those first few years that my students needed me to be. But, I was a kid too. I was an overwhelmed 21-year-old, and I needed to know that my work, my ideas, and my presence was important--just as our student do. Once I had a sense of purpose and knew that I had a significant role to play when it came to my students' and our school's success, I became the kind of teacher I always imagined myself to be and the kind of teacher my students needed me to be: high skill/high will.

Since then, I've taken that sense of purpose that that leader instilled in me and ran with it. I've spent the last four years as an instructional coach working to help elementary and middle school teachers realize exactly how much they, too, matter.  I've worked with all four kinds of teachers over the past handful of years. It's always the "low will" teachers that break my heart the most and move me to work the hardest in order to do right by them and their students.

It's easy to feel angry at them. What right do they have to slack on the job when our students' lives are at stake? But then I always pause for a moment and think back to my own shortcomings my first few years as a teacher, and I remember that the key to reaching students is in reaching their teachers. And, their teachers are people too, with needs and emotions and shortcomings ... and amazing potential waiting to be harnessed.

In this era of education where teachers are made to be the scapegoats of society's problems and often feel as though they are tasked with seemingly insurmountable responsibilities, we cannot let them forget just how much they matter and just how significant their work really is. Now, more than ever, school leaders must not only delegate and supervise, but we must empower and inspire. We cannot only address teachers' skill-sets. We must address their mindsets, as well. Most importantly, we must lead with a strong sense of purpose so that low will is not an option. We do not settle for the label "bad student," so let's not settle for "bad teacher" either. It's time to be the kind of leaders to our teachers that we expect our teachers to be for our students.

The Power of Labels

I think my mother has only lied once in her life.  And that lie proved to be life-changing.  You see, when my mother was a child her life was less than ideal.  Having to change her last name five times in elementary school due to the five new “fathers” that came in to her life was just the tip of the iceberg.  Home was a place of fear and survival- a place where “I love you” was only heard if it was coming from the TV set.  I’m sure even as her daughter, I only know the bits and pieces of her life that my mom thought I could handle.

For my mom, school was a dream world. When she walked in the doors to her school, no one knew that Vicki came from a scary world- a world she was ashamed of and felt deep down she was better than. And that is why she told her lie. Quite innocently, and without foresight about the weight her lie held, my mom told her teachers that her real name was Victoria (which it wasn’t) . . . because Victoria was a queen.  Nothing could be further from my mother’s reality than the life of a queen.  So, at school my mother was “Victoria,” and the teachers took the bait.

She acted the part.  She was prim and proper, completed all of her work, and the label stuck.  Basking in the joys of the imaginary world she created and addicted to the stability and pride she felt, she kept up the charade- always keeping her dark reality a secret, even to her best friends.  But slowly, what started as a lie became her new identity, and she graduated at the top of her class.  And although she now goes by Vicki, she carried herself as a Victoria later in her professional and family life as well.  She was “that mom.”  You know the one- the mom who looks at you sideways when you bring home an A- suggesting, “YOUR best is better.”  Her high expectations never wavered, and the only thing that trumped her expectations was her obsessive and unwavering love for her family.  My mom’s new label was so powerful and believable that she went on to create her own business, one that like my mom, broke the mold in its industry. Some might even say that it has allowed her to live the life of a queen.

When I was a teenager I overheard a conversation between my mom and a friend of hers that has never left me. Her friend had naively muttered something about how “all kids experiment with alcohol or drugs at some point.”  My mom, usually diplomatic, spoke with assertion:  “What an insult to our children,” she began.  “To assume our children are not smart enough or capable enough or strong enough to make good choices is simply dooming them to fail.  Our children most certainly can choose the life they want, and as the people that are supposed to love them most in this world, it is our duty to EXPECT that they do.”

That conversation resonated with me. As a teacher I am profoundly aware of the role that labels play in my students’ education.  Last spring I was having a conversation with a coworker of mine about what this year’s homework would look like. I am looping with some students and was attempting to make an excuse as to why I would need to modify homework expectations for a student of mine who not only lacks parent support but often does not have a bed to sleep in at night.  My teammate called me out.  He said, “For those students in particular, it is even more important that our expectations do not waver . . . for him or his parents.” 

He was so right.  We get connected, know how hard life is for some of our students, and feel it is our job to lighten the load.  But in doing so we are setting them up for failure.  Sometimes as teachers we allow labels to serve as excuses for what seems insurmountable.  It isn’t that that student of mine is incapable of learning responsibility, but rather it is just so overwhelming and plain old HARD for me to help him reach that goal, especially with everything this profession piles on our plates.

It is all too easy to succumb to labels.  If a child is on an IEP or in special education, we may tell ourselves that she is being serviced by a pull-out program . . . (someone else-the “system”--is taking care of it) to justify our inaction in the daunting task of helping her succeed.  If a child has a bad attitude about school and seems apathetic, it is easy to say to ourselves, “Well no wonder- look at his family life.  He was doomed from the beginning . . . poor guy.”  We pity these students for one reason alone: Because it is easier to pity their reality than to change their fate.

But just like my mother said, when we spend more time feeling bad for these students and justifying their lack of progress than helping them to create a new path, we are insulting them. We are essentially saying to students as young as six and seven, “Bummer- you have been dealt a hard hand, so hard in fact that the thought of how to help you overcome it is so overwhelming that I don’t know where to start. Thank God you are labeled “special education,” or “emotionally disturbed,” or (fill in the blank) because if you weren’t I would feel too much responsibility for your education.”  Thank God my mom was such a good liar.

Labels are so powerful.  Everywhere in society we can see the benefits as well as the repercussions of labels that have stuck.  BUT, it is in our hands to change them.  Not only is it in our hands, but it is our responsibility.  If we don’t take on that responsibility then we are insulting every student who walks through our doors. How often do our actions and words brand our students?  How often do they create writers, scientists, drug users, or drop-outs?  How many of our students walk through our doors as Vicki’s wishing they were Victoria’s?

It is my belief that good teachers lie and lie often. They whisper to students,  "I can tell you are destined for greatness". . .  “I have never met a greater writer in my life.” . . . “You are one of my favorite students of all time.”  Lies, lies, lies . . . or are they?  After a while, we start believing our own lies.  And they do too.  For, they are not really lies at all.  They are declarations of our students’ true identities . . . affirmations that we as their teachers can see beyond their labels . . . invitations to become the people they wish to be.   Just as my mother, lost and scared, could declare herself a “Victoria,” we too can declare our students scholars before the path unfolds.  So, we get in our student’s face- the one in the wheelchair- and demand an explanation for the A- and love him (and lie to him) until he gets there. We demand excellence and respect from our emotionally disturbed student- the one who was in foster care after being abandoned by his drug-addicted mother- telling him that we do so because he is different from the people that surround him in his life: he is special, and we are somehow privileged to be let in on the secret of just how great he is.  We hand back papers over and over again with the message, “You can do better.  You are destined to be great.  I BELIEVE in you.”  And we MUST believe they can do it.  We MUST feel responsible to ensure that they do. And the only thing that should trump our expectations is our obsessive and unwavering love for our students.

In all aspects of our educations system we need to assign new labels. How do we label parents, school board members, maintenance, ED assistants, and administrators?  And how do they label us?  If we changed labels across our district and organization, would our district or organization rise to meet those expectations?

I have had some great bosses who lied to me too.  With one finger on my less-than-ideal test scores and a knowing smile that I couldn’t escape, they told me I was great even when I was struggling in an effort to bring that potential for greatness forth. All of us deep down want to be queens (or kings), just as my mother did.  So, I fell for their bait.  I believed their words because I so desperately wanted to matter.

Deep down that’s what it comes down to:  we all want to matter. Our students, our parents, our teaching staff, all of us.  And we will take that label:  “talented student,” “supportive parent,” “great administrator,” “teacher-leader,” IF you are offering it.  What a gift. It makes us feel trusted and capable and willing to give all that we are to this profession and to this world.  Rather than feeling overwhelmed, we feel empowered . . . and we have more to offer than we ever knew.  And a label doesn’t cost a thing.  It is time to start investing.

Changing our students’ fates is no easy task. But, it CAN be done. In this field of work, it is time to start expecting mountains to be moved, by ourselves as well as our students.  Because if we don’t expect it, who will?  So we believe in our lies, believe in our dreams, believe in each other, believe in our kids and their possibilities.  And we tell the loving lies, with our heart’s conviction, that can make all the difference and bring forth the truth that every child can have a future- and we CAN make a difference.

My mother moved mountains.  It can be done. She told a lie- a lie which revealed the deeper truth of who she really was all along- a person of value.  She changed her label.  And that little girl from a scary family has left quite a big footprint on this world.  So big, in fact, that I named my daughter after her:  Gracie Victoria.