Time is Relative

This past weekend, my family and I made our annual trip to St. George, Utah, to watch the Buchanan High School Band perform at the Western Regional. My daughter is in the color guard, and this was our fifth straight year making the trip during the first weekend of November to support our kids.

The drive to St. George is beautiful. Well, mostly. It is about seven and three-quarter hours from home, and there are definitely stretches where the scenery could best be described as...there. But the closer you get to Utah, the more impressive the landscape becomes. The mountains change. The colors change. The rock formations begin appearing. By the time you reach St. George, the drive feels like it has been building toward something.

This year was a little different for us. When my son was in the band, he always wanted to ride the bus home with his friends after the competition. Crazy, I know. Apparently spending eight hours on a bus with a hundred teenagers was somehow more appealing than riding home peacefully with his parents. This year, however, he graduated, so he was traveling with us. My daughter also joined us for the trip home after the competition (Yes, we signed her out).

As we made our way back toward California, the kids quickly discovered something those of us who have made the drive already know. Not every mile looks like Utah. After Las Vegas, you eventually arrive at the thriving metropolis of Baker, followed later by everyone's favorite vacation destination, Barstow. There are some long stretches of Interstate 15 that remind you just how large and remote parts of California really are.

Still, we were making progress. Las Vegas behind us. Baker behind us. Barstow behind us. Closer and closer to home. Then we got just south of Tipton. We were a little more than an hour from home when traffic stopped. Not slowed. Stopped. And we stayed there for almost two hours.

That is when my kids learned one of life's great truths. The closer you get to home, the longer it takes. There is probably something psychological about that. Seven hours earlier, an eight-hour drive somehow felt reasonable. But when you are an hour from home, every minute suddenly matters more. You can almost feel your own bed. You start thinking about what you are going to do when you get home. There is a yearning. You know exactly how many miles are left. Then you stop moving. Time becomes relative.

I think students experience something similar. The closer they get to the finish line, the harder the remaining distance can sometimes feel. The last few problems on an assignment. The final paragraph of an essay. The last week before a break. The final weeks of a semester. The last quarter of a school year. From the outside, we might look at them and think, “You are almost there. Just finish.” That is when encouragement matters most.

Students do not always need us to move the finish line closer. Sometimes they simply need someone beside them reminding them that the traffic will eventually move. Keep going. This too shall pass. Do the next problem. Write the next sentence. Try one more time. Show up tomorrow. Progress does not stop being progress simply because it slows down. 

We are approaching Thanksgiving Break. Students know it. We know it. Just a short time until a week off. Everyone can see it coming. That can make the next few days feel strangely long. So as we move through this week, remember that the students who seem tired, distracted, frustrated, or ready to be done may simply be experiencing their own version of being stuck just south of Tipton. They can see where they want to be. They just are not there yet.

Our job is not necessarily to make the road shorter. Sometimes our job is simply to help them keep moving. Eventually the traffic cleared. Although really late, eventually we made it home. And, just like most journeys, the frustration became part of the story.

The closer you get to the finish, the longer it may seem to take. Keep going anyway.

Until next time...

For What It's Worth

As some of you may know, I am a campfire guitarist. I have been one for about 30 years. I use that term intentionally. Nobody is going to confuse me with Eric Clapton anytime soon. As a casual player, I often find myself learning songs from my childhood or songs that I have heard a thousand times but never really stopped to think about.

The other day I was playing “For What It’s Worth” by Buffalo Springfield. My kids and wife walked into the room and told me they had never heard the song. I was stunned. I immediately asked myself, “What am I doing as a father if I have failed to teach my children about culture and music?”

This song is part of the fabric of American culture. It is one of the most recognizable songs of its era. I have always liked the melody, especially that unmistakable opening, but after learning the story behind the song, I liked it even more.

Contrary to what many people assume, “For What It’s Worth” was not originally written about the Vietnam War. Stephen Stills wrote it after witnessing the unrest surrounding the Sunset Strip curfew protests in Los Angeles in November 1966. Young people, law enforcement, business owners, and city officials had become locked in an escalating conflict over curfews and access to clubs along the Strip.

Stills happened to be there. He saw what was happening, went home, picked up his guitar, and wrote the song in about 15 minutes. Fifteen minutes. Think about that. Something he witnessed. Something that bothered him. Something that made him think. Within minutes, it became a song that people are still listening to nearly 60 years later.

As the story goes, the song did not even have a title when Stills brought it to his record label. When asked what he had, he essentially offered it with the phrase, “for what it’s worth.” And somehow, the name stuck. A classic by almost any measure. That part of the story is what stayed with me.

Every day in schools, students hand us their own “for what it’s worth” moments. They offer an idea almost apologetically. “For what it’s worth, I think...” They show us a drawing in the corner of a notebook. They write something unexpectedly powerful. They solve a problem differently than we expected. They make a comment that seems random until we stop and realize there is something underneath it. They demonstrate a talent they may not even recognize as a talent yet.

Sometimes genius arrives confidently. But I think more often, especially with children, it arrives quietly. It is genius wrapped in a veil of uncertainty. Our challenge as educators is to notice it.

A student does not always know when an idea is good. They do not always know when they are talented. They do not always understand that the thing that comes naturally to them might be unusual or special. Sometimes they need somebody else to see it first. That may be one of the greatest opportunities we have in education. We get to say, “Wait a minute. There is something here.” We get to encourage the drawing. Ask another question. Read the story. Listen to the idea. Hand them another book. Give them another opportunity. Tell them, “You are good at this.” Who knows what happens after that?

Stephen Stills saw something happening on the Sunset Strip, went home, and turned it into a song that became a masterpiece of music and lyrics. Our students are watching the world too. They are thinking, creating, questioning, and trying to figure out where they fit in it. Pay attention when they hand you something and say, figuratively or literally, “For what it’s worth...” There might be more there than either of you realizes.

Circling back to my wife and kids, they were not impressed. To them, it was just another song Dad plays on his guitar in the playroom. Maybe I just enjoy playing alone. Or maybe I deliberately play music that keeps everyone away. Then again, it could simply be the veil of my genius. I’ll let you decide.

Until next time...

Holiday Sprint

Halloween has always felt like the unofficial beginning of the holiday season to me. Maybe it is the decorations. Maybe it is the change in weather. Maybe it is simply because once Halloween arrives, everything seems to move a little faster.

Think about where we are right now. From Halloween, we have roughly three weeks until Thanksgiving Break. Then we come back, blink a couple of times, and there are roughly three more weeks until Winter Break. That is not much time.

For schools, those six weeks become something of a sprint. We have curriculum to teach, assessments to give, interventions to provide, projects to finish, activities to coordinate, celebrations to enjoy, and somewhere in the middle of all of that, we are hoping students retain enough of what we taught that January does not feel like starting over.

No pressure. And while all of that is happening at school, life outside of school does not slow down either. Families are planning Thanksgiving. People are traveling. There are Christmas programs, shopping lists, practices, concerts, parties, family obligations, and schedules that seem to become more complicated by the day.

Students feel it too. They are excited. They are distracted. Some are counting down the days until break. Others may be approaching a season that is not nearly as joyful as we sometimes assume it is. That is something worth remembering. This time of year can bring out the best in people. It can also test our patience. 

Maybe that is why something Marcus Aurelius wrote almost 2,000 years ago seems especially appropriate right now. He wrote, “It’s courtesy and kindness that define a human being. That’s who possesses strength and nerves and guts, not the angry whiners.” I love that idea.

We often think strength means being tougher. Holding the line of winning the argument. Having the last word. Marcus Aurelius suggests something different. Strength is keeping your composure when it would be easier to lose it. Strength is remaining kind when somebody else is having a bad day. Strength is pausing before reacting. Strength is remembering that the student testing your patience may need your patience more than anyone else in the room.

That does not mean lowering expectations. It does not mean ignoring behavior. It does not mean allowing people to treat others poorly. Patience and accountability can exist in the same place. So can kindness and high expectations. In fact, I would argue that the strongest educators understand that better than anyone.

Over these next several weeks, there will be moments when we are tired. Students will be tired too. Someone will forget something. Someone will interrupt at exactly the wrong moment. A lesson will not go the way we planned. A student will make a choice that leaves us wondering what in the world they were thinking.

Pause. Take a breath. Remember the human being standing in front of you. We have a lot to accomplish between now and Winter Break. We should absolutely make the most of every instructional day we have. But the goal cannot simply be to survive the calendar. We also have to take care of the people moving through it with us. Maybe that means giving a student another minute to explain. Maybe it means checking on the colleague who seems quieter than usual. Maybe it means recognizing when we are the ones whose patience meter is running dangerously low. 

There is a lot coming. Thanksgiving will be here quickly. Winter Break will arrive even faster. The holiday sprint has begun. Teach hard. Expect much. Keep moving forward. But in the middle of all that urgency, remember that courtesy and kindness are not signs of weakness. 

They may be some of the strongest things we bring into the room.

Until next time...

Family

This past weekend, my entire family was together for the wedding of my niece. That does not happen very often anymore. As families grow, they also spread out. Kids become adults. Careers take them to different places. Calendars fill up. Someone is always working, traveling, coaching, going to school, raising children, or trying to get somewhere else. So when everyone actually gets into the same place at the same time, it feels significant. This weekend was especially meaningful because I got to see my oldest son. He flew in from Salalah, Oman, to be at the wedding. Needless to say, seeing him was pretty special.

Weddings have a way of bringing everyone back together. They are fun. They are emotional. They are filled with stories, laughter, pictures, hugs, food, music, and the inevitable conversations that begin with something like, “Do you remember when...?” They are also exhausting. As much as I love my extended family, there comes a point where my energy reserves begin flashing red. I think that is part of family too. Dodie Smith captured that tension perfectly in her 1938 play Dear Octopus when she wrote, “The family. That dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor, in our inmost hearts, ever quite wish to.” I love that description. An octopus. Tentacles everywhere. Sometimes pulling you in directions you did not plan to go. Sometimes holding on a little tighter than you would prefer. Sometimes completely draining the energy out of you. And yet, we never really want to escape. There is comfort in knowing there are people connected to us who have known us through different versions of ourselves. They remember when we were younger. They know the stories. They remember our successes and our failures. They have seen us at our best and, unfortunately, sometimes at our worst. Family grounds us.

Driving home after the wedding, I kept thinking about that idea. Maybe schools have their own version of the dear octopus. A school is a collection of people who become connected because they share something important. Students. Teachers. Aides. Custodians. Bus drivers. Office staff. Parents. Administrators. We arrive with different personalities, backgrounds, experiences, strengths, frustrations, and opinions. And then we spend an extraordinary amount of time together. Sometimes those relationships are easy. Sometimes they are not. Sometimes people energize us. Sometimes they drain the reserves. That is what happens when human beings spend enough time together.

But connection is also where the impact happens. Students remember the teacher who knew when something was wrong. They remember the aide who encouraged them. They remember the custodian who always said hello. They remember the bus driver who knew their name. They remember the staff member who helped them when they were scared. They remember the coach who refused to let them quit. They remember the adults who made school feel a little more like a place where they belonged. That does not happen because of a program. It happens because of people.

Families are imperfect. Schools are imperfect too. We frustrate one another. We misunderstand one another. We occasionally need some space from one another. We have good days and bad days. But somewhere underneath all of that is connection. And connection matters. My son traveled halfway around the world to be with our family for a wedding because being there mattered. Nobody had to explain that to him. It was simply Family that pulled.

Maybe that is one of the things I hope to  continue building here at Sequoia Union. A place where adults recognize that the relationships we build are not something separate from our work. They are the foundation of the work. Making an impact does not always require a huge moment. Sometimes it is simply showing up. Being present. Listening. Helping. Laughing together. Occasionally giving a little more of ourselves even when the energy reserves are getting low. That sounds a lot like family.

The dear octopus. We may occasionally complain about the tentacles. But deep down, we are awfully glad they are there.

Until next time...

Be a Good Human

As many of you know, I am usually reading something. Actually, I am usually reading one book and listening to another. I bounce from history to leadership to biographies to fiction and just about anything else that catches my attention. I regularly fall asleep reading and rarely watch TV.  Don’t get me wrong, the TV is on, but I’m not paying any attention to it. It remains an ambient noise for me, unless of course, I’m watching a sporting contest. Then, I’m focused!

Right now, I am about halfway through the Red Rising series by Pierce Brown. Don’t worry, I’m not going to broadcast a spoiler alert. If you have not read it, I will try not to ruin anything for you. The basic premise is that humanity has organized itself into a society built around Colors. Your Color determines where you fit. It defines your work, your status, your opportunities, and, unfortunately, how others are expected to see you.

Gold. Red. Blue. Pink. Gray. Everyone has a place and everyone has a label. Somewhere along the way, people begin confusing the label with the human being underneath it. That idea has stayed with me while reading because it reminds me of something I used to tell my students when I taught high school science.

For the 10 years I taught High School science, I used to finish every class with 'Be A Good Human'.  It was my only rule in class and it was posted on my wall. Be a Good Human. That was it. Students were inundated with rules everywhere else. Do this, do not do that. Sit here. Walk there. Don’t talk. Talk only when told to do so. Raise your hand. It goes on and on. My room had one. Be a good human. Every once in a while, a student would ask what that meant. My response was always the same. “If you have to ask what a good human is, you are probably not being one.” They usually understood.

Being a good human means you do not intentionally hurt someone else. You help when someone needs help. You tell the truth. You take responsibility when you mess up. You treat people with dignity. You understand that somebody sitting next to you may be having a much harder day than you realize. If a friend tells you something in confidence, it remains as such. If a person does something you didn’t like, you talk to them about it. An honest confrontation is always better than a dishonest peace. It really was not complicated. And maybe that is why Red Rising has me thinking about it again.

Does this mean that I always abide by the philosophy? No. I am a flawed human being that strives to do right by people. That is why the book Red Rising resonates with me. The Hero is a flawed human. As for you, none of us have to be a perfect teacher to be a good human. You will have bad days. You will make mistakes. But if your north star is always trying to do right by your students and your colleagues, you are doing the real work of a human being.

The core conflict of Red Rising is a struggle to reclaim humanity from a rigid system of genetic castes. The Society strips away individuality, and their color label is their caste. The hero has the belief that no matter the label or color, they are all human and worthy of dignity.

Applying that to schools, we have labels too. We have English learners. Students with disabilities. Gifted students. Students receiving intervention. Students with behavior plans. Students who are chronically absent. Athletes. Creative artists. High achievers. Struggling learners. Those labels can be useful. They help us identify needs and provide support, but they can never become the student. Behind every acronym, score, subgroup, intervention plan, behavior referral, and attendance percentage is a human being. The student who struggles in reading may also be the funniest kid in the room. The student who receives behavior referrals may be incredibly loyal to a friend. The quiet student may be carrying something nobody at school knows about. The student with the highest test score may desperately need someone to notice something besides the test score.

Data tells us something about students. It never tells us everything. Perhaps that is one of the most important responsibilities we have as educators. We have to see past the color or label. Past whatever category happens to appear next to a student's name and find the human. The same is true with one another. Whether teacher, aide, custodian, administrator, bus driver, administrative assistant, or parent. Those are roles. Those are not the human. 

Thirty years later, I still think my old classroom rule holds up pretty well. In fact, the older I get, the more I think we might be making some things unnecessarily complicated. So this week, I am going back to one rule. Look beyond the labels. Give someone a little grace. Notice the person behind the problem. Help when you can. Apologize when you should. Laugh often. Assume the best a little more frequently. And above everything else…Be a Good Human.

Until next time...

Time Well Spent

What does it mean to "waste" time? As we rush through our busy weeks, we often divide our days into time spent productively and time wasted. But when you look a little closer, all time is simply being spent. The distinction between "wasting" and "investing" time is not always about the activity itself. Much of it depends on our perspective and how we choose to value the experience. Take my recent weekend, for example.

I took a long road trip to Flagstaff, Arizona, to watch my daughter perform with the Buchanan High School Band. Some might look at hours of driving as a waste of a weekend. For me, it was pure joy. I spent those hours watching the landscape change, enjoying the steady rhythm of the highway, and soaking in the anticipation of watching her perform. I was not trying to get somewhere faster. I was not checking something off a list. I was simply present. That did not feel like wasted time. It felt like time well spent. 

On the way back, we stopped at the Grand Canyon. We only stayed for about 30 minutes. We stood near the edge, completely speechless, staring at that massive, majestic hole in the ground. Thirty minutes is almost nothing in the course of a week. It is barely a blip on a calendar. But I will remember those 30 minutes.

That is the strange thing about time. We cannot hoard it. We cannot save it for later. We cannot store up an extra Tuesday and use it when life slows down. It just keeps moving. What we can do is decide what matters while it is passing. And that leads me to a question. Isn't that part of our goal as educators?

We spend a great deal of time talking about instructional minutes, pacing guides, assessments, interventions, standards, and all the things students need to learn. Those things matter. They absolutely matter. But we are also building memories.

Think back on your own formal education. Chances are, you do not remember most of the tests you took. You probably do not remember every assignment, every worksheet, or every struggle along the way. But you remember people. You remember laughter. You remember the teacher who made you feel capable. You remember the field trip. You remember the class that felt like a family. You remember the moment everyone laughed so hard that the lesson stopped for a minute. You remember how school made you feel. That is time well spent too.

Sometimes the moments that look least productive on paper become the moments students carry with them the longest. A conversation before class. A joke that breaks the tension. A few extra minutes spent listening. A celebration. A story. A moment when a student knows an adult genuinely sees them.

When I taught high school science, students would tell me the best day was the day after the midterm, which I called "Off the Subject Day." On that day, they could ask me any question, curriculum related or not. Yes, the conversation could go just about anywhere, but that was part of the fun. My job was to field the questions and provide strategically worded answers. Years later, that is one of the things students still remember.

Those moments are not distractions from our work. They are part of the work. Marcus Aurelius, the Roman emperor and Stoic philosopher, once wrote, "The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way." In simpler terms, the obstacle is the way. Sometimes the unexpected interruption, the detour, or the moment that was not in the lesson plan becomes the very thing a student remembers. I'll let you marinate on that one.

So this week, protect the important minutes. Teach well. Plan well. Use the time wisely. But do not become so focused on filling every minute that you miss the chance to make one memorable. Our students are spending part of their lives with us. Let us make certain some of that time becomes worth remembering.

Until next time...

Embracing the Hectic

This week I wanted to reflect on the first 30-plus days of the school year. As with anything, it takes time to settle into a rhythm. With families, August and September bring not only school, but activities, practices, games, homework, and everything else life decides to throw into the mix. Things get a little hectic.

In my house, it is all crazy. I have one in the college band, one in the high school band, and our youngest in soccer. Many days, my wife and I have to play zone defense to cover everything. Other days, we have to play man-to-man (Those are my sports references).

For those who do not get the reference, when we play zone, we get to the activity that is closest. If we play man-to-man, we split up. I go to one place and she goes to another. The kids get to at least see one of us there.

I have used that reference since they were young. I would sit in one room of the house, she would sit in another, and one of us would holler, “He’s in your zone!” No matter how many were coming, if they were in my zone, I had to be on my game. Playing man-to-man, or simply “man” as my wife and I call it, seems much simpler. I have one job. Stick to the child. Eyes on the target. Do not let them get behind you or they may go for a long score! But I digress.

You may remember that my college son is a drummer. I love that he wanted to attend Fresno State like I did. I love that he remains at home. I cherish the time because when they are gone, they are gone. But did I mention that he is a drummer? He is always practicing another piece for the band. Another “difficult piece,” as he puts it. He plays the tenors. You may know them as the quads. If the name does not ring a bell, they are the rack of connected drums that marching band percussionists wear across their waist.

What does this have to do with the first 30-plus days of school, you may be asking? Fair point. I embrace the craziness. The rumble and repetitive pounding of the drums. The rhythm. The schedules. The rush from one place to the next. I embrace it all.

Someday, I know the noise will be quiet. My days will not be filled with practices, games, performances, rides, forgotten equipment, or trying to figure out who needs to be where and when. I am not looking forward to that. I embrace hectic.

And maybe there is something in that for us at school too. Schools are noisy places. Whistles sound. Students talk. Phones ring. Doors open. Someone needs help. Someone forgot something. A lesson changes. A meeting gets added. A student needs a little more of our time than we planned to give. The day rarely unfolds exactly the way we pictured it when we drove onto campus that morning. It can feel hectic because it is hectic.

But there is also something beautiful buried inside all that noise. The noise means students are here. The questions mean they trust us enough to ask. The interruptions mean somebody needs us. The games, practices, activities, field trips, lessons, projects, and conversations mean something is happening. We are in the middle of it. So maybe the goal is not always to eliminate the hectic. Maybe sometimes the goal is to recognize it for what it is. A school finding its rhythm. Thirty-plus days into this year, we are finding ours.

So embrace the hectic. Listen for the rhythm underneath the noise. And remember that someday, we may look back and wish we could hear those drums one more time.

Until next time...