I like to go on a morning run (jog, sometimes trot) the last morning of the school week, which is typically Friday mornings, to reflect on my week of teaching. Did I do a “good” job? Was I kind to students and colleagues? Did I make time for my family? Did I drink enough water? I usually replay instances where I was in such a rush that I didn’t say “good morning” to a colleague or when I forgot to return to a student who had a question. I always make a promise to drink more water and to leave school before rush hour.
After over a decade of teaching, this is my first year teaching summer school. For the past five years, I spent my summers working on a doctorate, and feeling a little lost having finished my degree, I committed myself to four weeks of junior high summer school.
This week I ran on a Thursday morning because it is summer school, and we only meet Monday through Thursday. Are you imagining some utopian realm of teaching where we have this schedule all year? Are you imagining what you’d do with your Friday mornings? Does this sound “nice” to you? It is rather nice. I am writing a blog on this lovely Friday morning, but wait, there’s more to this utopian universe.
On my run, reflecting on my first ever week of summer school, I was thinking about how our summer school is sort of like living a work of fiction, a scene from a utopian novel (before dystopian elements of the “real” school year infiltrate the plot). Picture this:
- Teenagers are invited to school; they decide to be students of their own volition.
- Students meet in the cafe around 9 am with their teachers for breakfast and a chat.
- Once the chat simmers down, students and teachers make their way to a classroom with iPads, working wi-fi, notebooks, pencils, folders, novels, sticky notes, a projector, and air conditioning.
- Everyone reads and writes for an hour and a half and then reconvenes in the cafe for a snack before going out the track for a stroll and conversation.
- After about 20 minutes, everyone returns to class for some problem solving, which involves some real-world math conversations.
- The day ends with time for students to discuss personality, social graces, communication, interpersonal skills, and, the best part, building relationships.
- There are no grades.
- There is no sanctioned system for behavior like checks, majors, minors, office referrals or detention.
- There are between fifteen to eighteen students in a classroom, which means you can take your time with feedback.
- The “teacher” work day gets closer to eight hours: arrive at 7 or 8am to set up lessons and technology; teach 9-12 pm; assess, plan, collaborate and eat until 2 pm.
- And school is only Monday through Thursday.
Yep, this is utopia, the sort of direction I’d like to see school go. I am enjoying the chats during breakfast time, and I especially love the part about no grades, which means less anxiety for teachers and students. Not one student has asked me how many points a journal is worth or what grade they got on their blog post. In the morning, they just say, “What are we learning today?”
Six teachers have committed to summer school. We met a few times before the start-up to discuss the schedule, reading plans, and, for us ELA teachers, ideas for how to make math accessible. Yes, I am teach reading, writing, and math in summer school, so I am re-learning math concepts with the support of a colleague. Another really nice part about summer school is that there are no high stakes tests looming over us. We are reading and doing math for the sake of learning. The teachers and principal are just coming at these four weeks of summer school in the mindset of this: We want to students to imagine school as a nice place to be. We want students to see school as a place for them and learning as way of discovering who they can become and what they can do.
On this first Thursday of summer school, after breakfast, we gathered in our summer school classroom and tried our hand at creative writing with Paperman, a lovely animated short about the way some strangers cross paths and feel a connection if just for a second, and it imagines how the fates might conspire to bring those people back together. There are no words.
I talked briefly about how we might reimagine this story using words reviewing first person, third person, and dialogue and how these writerly choices might get into the character’s voices and backstory.
And then they were off writing, and writing. We watched it again, and then went back to writing, and writing: two or three pages in ten minutes. Finally, students partnered up to read aloud the story they imagined and celebrate their writing. Here are a few lines from one:
Today I was on my way to work, waiting for my train, and all of a sudden this lady lost her paper. It stuck to me for about two seconds. Then, I didn’t really care until I saw that the lady that came to me. I immediately fell in love. She was beautiful. Then, my paper flew out of my hand and on to her face. I was embarrassed until I saw her reaction. She looked at the paper and started to laugh.I took a look at the paper, and I saw her lipstick was on it, so I laughed, too.
I have used Paperman to introduce students to creative writing over the years, and I have seen many renderings of Paperman. One student wrote a short story from the perspective of the paper airplane:
The wind carries me up and up, farther away from the folder I’m supposed to be in. This is one of the reasons I hate being paper. My owner sprints after me, arm outstretched. SMACK! I run into a woman’s face, feeling her sticky red lips on my front. Ouch, that’ll leave a mark. Adam’s hand gingerly pulls me off her face, un-sticking me from her lipstick. Looking down, I see the newest addition to my numbers and letters- a bright red lipstick stain. This one won’t wash out. The lady smirks at me as a confused Adam peers at my other side. He chuckles, about to apologize just as she walks away, rushing to her train. Aw, is that heartbreak I see on his face? Boo-hoo, get over it, Adam, you didn’t even speak to her. Be a man!
This Paperman writing workshop probably sounds like your own writing classroom, or at least you recognize the process of imagining, drafting, sharing, celebrating, revising, and publishing. In the summer, however, there is a decidedly different energy in the classroom and building, which I like, and that I think is “good” for the students and teachers. The students in summer school “volunteered” to be there (of course, some parents probably strongly encouraged it), but some were invited because of their disengagement with school or their tendency to sit on the fringes of discussions during the regular school year. Summer school is their chance step into their learning, and they need a safe and comfortable place to take risks.
When this small writing workshop was sharing their stories, you should have seen the smiles on their faces; their eyes and smiles said “yeah, I wrote that” and “wow, you wrote that.” It was pretty beautiful to witness. At the end of writing, there was no bell to tell them to move to the next class. We were just ready for a snack and a walk. We joined two other eighth grade classes in the cafe for freezy pops and pretzels before walking the school track. Students from the three classes were sharing what they learned that morning as they walked in the sunshine. One teacher walked the track, too, and I sat on benches with a few girls and chatted about chanclas.
It is Friday morning, and I am not in school but writing about it. For now I feel like I am in some dimension of utopia, but I realize we, our schools, have yet to arrive at some utopian destination. Indeed, we are far from the sort of schools our students deserve, and yet there are teachers who create these wonderful communities that make possible many of the points listed above (conversations with students, feedback over grades, and learning over testing). Utopia doesn’t have to be a work of fiction. We can imagine utopia as a direction — a direction I intend to keep running toward when the “real” school year begins and elements of dystopia loom. I imagine there will be times that I come to a slog jog, a trot, or even a walk, but I will remember this summer and do my best to take steps in the “right” direction (while drinking water). And when I am unsure about which direction is “right,” I will look to the students to remind me.
Do you have a story from your classroom about utopia as a direction? Please write a guest post for Ethical ELA using this form.