Expecting More and Getting It, June 2010
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My dad died a few months ago at the age of 93. I don't think one is ever prepared for the death of a parent even when it's expected. While my dad had become increasingly frail over the last two years, his death seemed a bit surreal to me. I was relieved his struggle was over, but I missed the dad I'd known most of my life.

My husband and I had devoted the past eight years to taking care of my dad and enriching his life as best we could. We moved him to Seattle from New York City eight years ago following a brutal stroke. Although my dad was severely physically disabled, for most of those years his mind was fully alert and he understood everything, although it would be a while before he would learn to speak again. To keep his mind active, I read aloud to him, books on politics and other nonfiction I thought he'd find interesting as well as articles from his favorite news source, The New York Times. We also did some shared reading of articles where he followed along as I read. Now and then, I would pause, show him a line and have him fill in the next meaningful word or the rest of the sentence. To make sure he was understanding what we were reading, I would ask him what the article was about, and with a very few, precise words, he demonstrated he got the essential meaning.

I learned a lot about teaching from seeing how my dad was treated in the nursing home and how little was expected of him. As nursing homes go, it was an excellent one. For the most part, my dad received expert and compassionate nursing and medical care. It was his mind, however that I worried about. The philosophy seemed pretty much to be, "Keep him breathing," with little attention to "Keep him thinking." There were few expectations for engaging him in conversation, beyond the superficial, "How are you?" or "Who's here to visit you today?" even though he was perfectly capable of making and receiving an intelligent or humorous comment.

Seeing my dad mentally starved reminded me of some high poverty schools where the credo seems the same: "Give the kids a scripted program and keep them breathing. Make sure they have a pulse, that they're well behaved, but don't worry much about getting them to think for themselves." Sadly, when I've shared this commonality between nursing homes and schools with educators, there's always instant recognition.

The head nurse, as well as my dad's physician, told me they were surprised by his progress, that they'd rarely seen anyone who had suffered such a severe stroke able to mentally function at my dad's level. I hear the same thing in high poverty schools where I do demonstration teaching in classrooms. Often, teachers say, "I didn't know he could do that," to which I respond, "I didn't know he couldn't."

I believe the gravest civil rights issue facing our nation today is how little we expect from our underserved schools and students. As one teacher once told me, "We all say we have high expectations, but the truth is the kids have to prove to us first that they are capable." Let's turn that around and really believe "they can do it" and teach in a way that respects and maximizes each individual's intelligence and potential.

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Changing a Life, August 2009

I met Kathy during a weeklong residency where I was demonstrating effective teaching of reading in a high challenge school. Like many of the students in the school, fifth-grader Kathy was a bilingual learner who was struggling as a reader. While her teachers told me she was reading on a second-grade level, a one-on-one conference with her quickly revealed her to be a non-reader with very poor decoding skills but adequate comprehension. In spite of being able to read a limited number of words, she managed to get the gist of the story. Later I found out she had been placed in special education and was only participating in the full language activities of the classroom because I had insisted all students be present for my demonstration teaching. Kathy was a failing and dispirited student who disliked school. Unable to get recognition for being smart, she was now seeking attention in inappropriate social ways with her peers.

Today Kathy is transformed. At the age of 16, she is a smart, articulate, courageous, and inspiring young woman. Kathy managed to wrest herself free of her special education placement through years of advocacy. Determined to succeed in school, she sought out the resources she needed, worked relentlessly to become a proficient reader and writer, and will be graduating high school in June 2010, a full year ahead of schedule. She will be attending college and intends to realize her dream of becoming a lawyer to help other students like herself. I spoke by phone with Kathy a few weeks ago. She wanted to be sure I put the date on my calendar to attend her high school graduation.

Kathy's life was changed by one reading conference when I told her she had a "smart brain," was a nonreader through no fault of her own, and that she would receive the reading help she so desperately needed. I tell her story in Teaching Essentials (Heinemann 2008) and you can see and hear Kathy's story in her own words here, on the Heinemann.com website, and in Transforming Our Teaching Through Reading to Understand (Heinemann 2009.) While Kathy's story is unique, in my experience, it is not uncommon for a child's life to be changed inside and outside of the classroom through one honest, affirming conference. Starting with honestly celebrating the child's strengths (they all have them!) before offering possible suggestions for improvement is often enough to jumpstart the child's lagging confidence, courage, and willingness to work hard. This is the gift we educators can choose to give to all of our students. They deserve no less from us.

Showing Up, August 2008
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Uncle Harry is my dad's cousin, twice removed. (That is to say, he is a cousin through marriage to a cousin.) Uncle Harry is 98 years old, has a girl friend, drives at night, lives independently, and enjoys his life. He has not been to a doctor in ten years. ("What I don't know won't kill me!") But the best thing about Uncle Harry is that he writes to my dad every two weeks, without fail. He has been sending these handwritten letters and "showing up" for more than six years, ever since my dad had a severe stroke and we moved him to Seattle from New York, where the two "cousins" had rooted for their beloved Yankees for decades.

My dad's face still lights up when my husband Frank or I, or our son Peter and his family, visit at the nursing home and we have a letter from Uncle Harry. Hearing these newsy and humorous letters (he often ends with a joke) brings back memories and makes my dad feel he's involved in the lives of others. At the age of 91, my frail father rarely hears from old friends, family members, or business associates. One by one, just about everyone has disappeared into the fabric of their own busy lives—except for Uncle Harry.

A few years ago a well-meaning aide was cleaning out my father's drawer and she tossed all of Uncle Harry's letters, some of which included irreplaceable family photos. At the time, I could barely contain my anger and sadness at that thoughtless act. But Uncle Harry kept writing, and today I have a large stash of his precious letters safe at home, a legacy to my father's past and a testimony to steadfast love and friendship.

Here's what I've learned from Uncle Harry. He shows up because he cares and because he's lived long enough to know how much it matters. He shows up because he knows it brings joy and humor to me and to my father. He shows up because he loves my dad and wants my dad to know it. And, he shows up because life is about caring for the disabled and troubled, the gifted and the needy, even when no one is looking. It's the same for us as teachers, isn't it? We give our all to our students—even when we're exhausted and burdened, even when we're not getting the recognition we think we deserve, even when we don't want to—because we know we can make a difference in their lives and because, plain and simple, it's the right thing to do. Uncle Harry would be proud.

Advocating for Students, February 2008

It is late fall in a first-grade classroom where I am teaching students to tell, write, and publish important stories from their lives. I am having a public writing conference with Marco. He has written some random letters on his paper, and his teachers believe that is the best he can do. We soon learn that he is capable of much more. With lots of back-and-forth conversation and encouragement, Marco tells a story about falling off the monkey bars on the playground and hurting his back. Sitting side by side and gently questioning ("How did that happen?" "Were you badly hurt?" "Then what did you do?") I guide him to write on his own and apply what he knows about letters and sounds. His classroom teacher immediately publishes his story by hand. She writes it on four pages with one line per page. Marcos illustrates it and, with great pride, reads his very first book to his peers.

I later learn that Marco has an Individual Education Plan for reading, math, and speech and is "pulled out" of the classroom three times daily to receive support from three different specialists. When his conscientious classroom teacher asks the specialists what she can do to help him learn, she is advised to "have him copy words from a book." Sadly, it is all too common for students like Marco, many of whom come from poverty and are English language learners, to have kind, well-intentioned teachers who expect little from them.

When the classroom teacher and I speak a couple of months later, she reports that test results indicate that Marco has made no demonstrable progress. That is, despite five months of daily support, nothing of significance has changed for this child. I advise her to advocate for him and take more responsibility for teaching him. Rather than fidelity to the program or specialist, we teachers need to have fidelity to the child and to restore common sense to any support plan. We need to ask ourselves: What do my experiences with the child tell me? What would I want to happen if this were my child? What does this child most need, and what is the best way to provide it? How can all available support services in a school be reconfigured so that more children benefit?

I am constantly stunned and saddened at how often we teachers unwittingly put the child last. Exhausted by having to implement yet another new program and to deal with testing demands and mandates, teachers become victims of learned helplessness. I am sympathetic to my fellow teachers, but I am heartbroken for the child. Who will advocate for our children if we do not?

Marco is fortunate. His caring classroom teacher has begun to take action by meeting with the principal and specialists to craft a plan to accelerate his learning. Her advocacy gives him a chance to become a learner; his learning gives him a chance to share in the American dream.

Picking Blackberries, August 2007

When it's blackberry season, I don't care about stained purple fingers, prickly scratches, messed up clothes, or muddy shoes. Filling up a bucket of blackberries is pure joy. I love the tart, juicy, sweet taste of the berries. (Only half of them make it into the bucket.) I love being out in the hot sun in the midst of all the wild bramble bushes. I love making blackberry jam and blackberry pie and sharing those fruits of my labor with people I care about.

Most of all, though, when I really think about it, what I love best are the exquisite memories that blackberry picking evokes—wonderful family times when we picked berries together. Life seemed so uncomplicated then. Picking blackberries reminds me that life is sweet and sour, smooth and thorny, and always an adventure—sometimes within easy reach and other times a great challenge. So it is with our teaching—now and then prickly, always challenging, and with moments of pure delight.

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