Gardening and Teaching, August 2011
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My husband Frank and I spend a lot of time in our garden trying to create and sustain beauty, balance, and peacefulness. Lately, I've been thinking about gardening as a metaphor for living and teaching. We never quite get the balance right, or if we do, those moments of "rightness" and beauty are fleeting. No matter how carefully or willingly we tend the garden, weeds sprout up, unexpected disaster occurs, and a lovingly cultivated plant fails to thrive.

About five years ago, Frank and I purchased a beautiful peony tree to anchor our garden. Every spring, the plant delighted us with gorgeous and delicate pale, pink flowers, but this past spring has been different. Something about the growing conditions that we haven't been able to figure out—too much water, too little water, a fungus—produced fewer and less vibrant blooms along with withering brown leaves. We tried a variety of restorative strategies that were recommended by the nursery where we purchased the plant, but all to no avail. The peony tree is hardy, so it hasn't died, but in an otherwise lovely garden it's a sore spot, like that one student who seems constantly out of place. We staked the faltering plant up to make it sturdier, but, afterwards, the nursery expert told us, "It's the hardest thing for people to do, to not stake up a faltering peony tree, but the plant will only stand on its own and become stronger, over time, once you remove those stakes." We haven't been able to do that yet, but I'm thinking about removing those supports. How does one determine how much scaffolding is needed on the way to independence?

On the other hand, we have a fig tree, which we planted six years ago in the middle of a hill in our backyard. We wanted a touch of whimsy and dissonance in an otherwise orderly area. That fig tree failed to thrive year after year despite our considerable efforts. In the middle of each growing season, Frank and I would talk about removing the puny tree as, once again, it had sent up paltry branches, few leaves, and no figs. And yet, we remained cautiously hopeful. Now, this summer, to our delightful surprise, the fig tree is tall and graceful. Its branches and leaves are beautiful; there are new sprouts everywhere, and even a few figs. We nurtured that fig tree for years, and, finally, that nurturing has produced an elegant, healthy tree. We don't know why this year is different, but, maybe all those years of nurturing are finally bearing fruit. Or, maybe, the tree is a slow grower and just needed many years to root and take hold.

To be a successful and joyful gardener, we need to be open to the idea of change and uncertainty being inevitable. Being willing to deal with change is essential to becoming an effective gardener, parent, or teacher. Nothing stays the same, and there are no guarantees that what worked well one year will work well again with a new crop of plants—or students. Each plant in the garden has its own quirks and special characteristics, just like our students and our children. Although they all need tending, the type and amount of attention and support varies. Certain times of year or stages of maturity require intensive care and lots of patience; other times the plant needs sustained time to grow on its own with just regular watering, feeding, sufficient light, and ongoing monitoring. Also, not to be minimized, we usually have to deal with those prickly, unique circumstances that are out of our control. Yet, season after season, we remain hopeful that there will be blooms in the garden. When the blooms come, and they always do, we savor their unique loveliness, knowing full well that the beauty is transitory but, also, that the beauty will appear again next year—more likely than not.

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Creating a Welcoming Culture, January 2011

My husband Frank and I strive to make our living environment as pleasing as we can, for ourselves and for those we welcome into our home. We want our guests to feel cherished and appreciated. We attempt to create spaces that are beautiful, whether it be a vase of fresh flowers or a carefully set table for dining. We cook with the freshest ingredients whether it's for a homemade fruit tart or a simple, tossed green salad. Cooking, in particular, is one way I show family and friends how much they matter to me.

A few weeks ago my eleven-year-old granddaughter Katie stayed overnight and we did some cooking together. I told her that the reason I like to cook for people is it's a way of showing love. Taking special care and time with how you prepare and serve food is one way I let people know they are important to me. It's a lesson I learned from my mom. I don't ever recall her serving a store-bought dessert. I want to pass that lovely, caring tradition down to my grandchildren. Especially today when life seems to move so fast, it's fun and relaxing to slow down and cook at leisure, and to put a wonderful meal together for others.

All of this gets me thinking about the parallels to the classroom and school environment and making it welcoming for all those who work and visit there. What is the culture we want to create? How do we influence the culture of our workplace? What can we do to ensure it is welcoming, a place for risk taking, beautiful, and safe? How do we make everyone feel valued? I will never forget my many years working as a literacy coach when I was in a different building each day of the week, supporting teachers. Sometimes we had after-school meetings where all the teachers worked late. The district would provide dinner and it was, almost always, pizza on paper plates. Yet when I reported monthly at the principals' meeting with the superintendent, those lunchtime meetings always included a catered lunch on real china. I felt then, as I do now, that it would have been wonderful to show teachers appreciation for their extra efforts with a wonderful meal on real plates, at least occasionally.

The first thing I notice when I enter a school is how welcoming it feels to visitors. I look for authenticity and real-world purposes in literacy tasks, collaboration by teachers and students, conversations that go beyond test-taking and skills, a beautiful, clean, and safe environment. I notice what's in the hallways and on classroom walls and whether what's posted is truly meant to be read by readers or is just posted to fill space. I look at the way desks are arranged in classrooms and the opportunities for students to work together. I notice the quality of the literacy resources and whether or not they're first-rate, worthy of the students' time and respectful of their interests and cultures. I notice how teachers are dressed as dressing professionally also imparts a sense of caring about the profession and sets a good example for children. I look for first-rate classroom libraries and comfortable areas for voluntary reading. I notice how respectfully adults talk to each other and to children and who's doing most of the talking. I listen for a commitment to high expectations and a belief that students can be high achievers. And, always, I look for a sense of enjoyment in teaching and learning and whether or not people are glad to be there.

What I've learned over many years of working in classrooms and schools is that a welcoming and caring culture is a necessity for high, schoolwide achievement and that we all have the opportunity and responsibility to work to make the culture a positive one for learning and for living. The little things do matter—greeting each other warmly, refusing to participate in gossip, having fresh coffee available, taking the time to remember staff members' birthdays, and doing whatever we can to create a more trusting and joyous environment, one where everyone feels appreciated and cherished.

Expecting More and Getting It, June 2010

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.

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

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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