Dear State Ed.: You Don't Know Me

To the State of New York Department of Education,

You don't know me, but I am a "Developing" teacher.

This is according to the mystical math equation you used to determine my effectiveness rating, a formula that looks like some new age hieroglyphic. So, even though my boss, an experienced teacher, watched me do my job and gave me "applying" and "innovating" marks, and though I earned equally good marks for my evidence binder (which was entirely electronic, thank you very much), and despite the fact that I earned 80% of the points possible for my students' local exam performance, my overall rating was "Developing".

The factor that ultimately destroyed my rating (and for a while my self-esteem) was my students' performance on the State test, a test that represented just 3 of our 180 days together. My students at our small rural school did very poorly. If I was a rocket scientist, I would understand how heavily factors such as poverty, lack of home support, having any number of disabilities, and chronic absenteeism - all challenges our district faces - factored into that whacky equation, or the fact that I was on maternity leave for four months of the school year. I also don't know how a student's apathy or their worry about dad in jail or mom on drugs, or the fact that their stress level was through the roof when they took the high stakes test factored in.

I would also like to know how the following factors affected my rating:

1. The fact that just recently, one seventh grade boy became distraught in the middle of my lesson;  after class he confided in me, through tears, that some of his classmates had been calling him "retarded". I spent some time talking to him, trying to help him recapture his self-worth, then sent him onto his next class. The next day, he brought me a red carnation.
2. The fact that the same twelve year-old boy now gives me a hug nearly every day.
3. The fact that another boy, considered to be a difficult and disaffected student, stops by my classroom several times per day and wants to join my AIS class (though he doesn't need remediation) instead of going to study hall.
4. The fact that after doggedly encouraging my students to read over December and February breaks, three of my 65 students finally read 20 minutes per day over April break to complete the Reading Challenge, and the whole class applauded them.
5. Or the fact that just the other day, one of my former students came to tell me she is graduating early and going to Hudson Valley Community College.  She shared how much she loved and missed my class.
6. Oh, and what about the fact that one of my mild-mannered students trusted me enough with his life that he admitted that he had thoughts of killing himself?

And that's just data from the last three weeks. How did those factors calculate into the formula to determine my score?

There is one thing of which I am sure.  I AM a developing teacher. 

I am growing, my abilities and talents are constantly evolving, never stagnant. I am ever finding new and better ways to inspire and motivate, to value and honor my students, to challenge and push them beyond what they thought possible. I am continually reevaluating my own work, rethinking my craft, reflecting on my students, our community, and our world to find more challenging, relevant, and meaningful texts, resources, technologies, writing, and projects. Each year, I grow to understand more and more about what kids need beyond learning to read and write, but what they need to feel visible, to know that they have a voice, and that they are more than just a score. I am growing to help kids find better ways to hone their skills and develop their voices to stand up to anyone who would belittle or devalue them, to exercise their rights as informed and aware citizens.

Please allow me to teach you something: There are passionately taught lessons that are never tested, like reading for the sole purpose of enjoying it, or writing for authentic audiences (or *gasp* for fun), collaborating effectively with peers, or learning tolerance and respect. The learning students do in these areas cannot be easily measured, nor can the influence a teacher has on her students that makes them remember him or her fondly, or share memories about that teacher, or return for a visit, even decades later. The human effect teachers have on students cannot be measured. The humanity of teaching - its most crucial component, I would argue - is unquantifiable, even with a formula as complicated as yours.

Because, ultimately, teaching well is about more than teaching content or getting kids to perform on a standardized test. And because some really important aspects of teaching and learning defy a rubric and transcend the test.

You don't know me, but I'm a developing teacher. All great teachers are.

Why the Writing Project Makes Me Cry

For the record, I am not a big crier. Okay, NPR Story Corps Project stories sometimes get me, for example how a young soldier was disfigured in war and his newlywed bride stuck by his side, making the two inseparable and stronger than ever. But I am not an emotional sap. In fact, my husband will tell you that life has to get pretty difficult for me to cry. But it never fails. Every single time I get together with my Capital District Writing Project colleagues, as we sit around a large boardroom table with our laptops and notebooks having rich professional conversations, usually punctuated by laughter - I feel the emotion well up inside of me and, without fail, thin, hot tears eek out of the sides of my eyes. Every. Single. Time. 

Crying in front of colleagues whom I admire and respect, though they are accepting, always makes me feel slightly embarrassed ('There's no crying in teaching!'). But I am rarely ever as moved as when I'm working with CDWP teachers. What causes me to be so emotional in the CDWP community that I cannot keep the tears inside? What is it that brings forth such an emotional storm within me? What is it that leaves me feeling so raw? After much reflecting (and many tears), I understand more deeply why I cry.

I cry because we are writers, immersed in the craft we teach. We understand that writing, like creating art, provides an opportunity for deeper understanding, a vehicle through which we interact with our students and ourselves in more complex and sophisticated ways. I cry because this deeper engagement with life inspires me.


I cry because I feel the power and energy of a shared mission, a profound purpose in educating young people, the importance of teaching them how to use writing for a variety of purposes - all of which transcend the test. I am surrounded by teachers who teach students to inquire, engage with, discuss, debate, and discover things around them so that, through writing, they might transform the world. I cry because CDWP teachers see the power our young people should have and are working desperately to give students access to it.


 I cry because I am overwhelmed by the daunting journey of teaching. We face so many challenges - poverty, apathy, lack of parent support, lack of financial support, political maneuvering, and a culture of teacher-blaming; we aren't just teachers, we are social workers, parents, psychologists, cheer-leaders, coaches, and confidantes. I cry because it is a mostly thankless job, and it is hard, and I am tired.

I cry because I am humbled by the power and strength of the individual acts of defiance that CDWP teachers promulgate in our classrooms. We defy being pigeonholed into teaching in artificial and standardized ways. We honor our students as human beings with unique gifts and strengths. We refuse to allow the powers that be dictate what we know as professionals to be best for students. We strive to inspire and motivate them.  I cry because I feel our power.

I cry because we understand that the best teachers are forever learners. We share the excitement that comes from engaging in meaningful learning, striving to become the best teachers that we can be, constantly examining our practice and honing our craft. Our teaching is not stagnant or stifled; we are evolving and blossoming. I cry because we are alive.

Finally, I cry because the rich conversations fill me with life.  We discuss, inquire, inspire, share, support, and recognize one another as teachers and writers. These interactions sustain me, invigorate me with inspiration. I cry because when all is said and done, I feel more human.

Letting the tears fall at professional meetings, as unconventional as the meetings are, will likely never stop making me feel slightly self-conscious. And after much reflection I now understand that it is the empowerment and engagement which get me so emotional, but there's one question that still weighs on my heart: How can I get more?