Content, inquiry, literacy, citizenship.  I was excited to see these four words at the top of the descriptive narrative for the new History/Social Studies framework for the state of California.  While social studies has a seat at the table of core academic disciplines, our K-12 schools don’t always give it the attention it deserves.  Yes, Math and English are important, but are they inherently more important than learning how societies, economies, and politics work?  I don’t want to get into a competition for which discipline is the most important, or the most neglected.  I taught Spanish as a World Language and have plenty to say about the powers that shape curricular priorities.

Of course I was a little disappointed that the new framework wasn’t more explicit in its commitment to authentic critical thinking.  I think the critical lens takes things one step past “inquiry,” towards issues of bias, power, and control.  One of the essential questions for a middle grades social studies class, for example, asked how “distant regions of the world become more interconnected.”  The framework seemingly treated “interconnectedness” as a benign phenomenon that had little to say about power, violence, racism, and war.  Unfortunately, these are often areas of common ground for humanity.

But despite my critiques, I was very much heartened at the broadened ambition to ensure that our social studies classrooms become centers for inquiry, literacy development, and the promotion of genuine citizenship.  Where better than a social studies classroom to break down the reliability of sources of information?  Where better than a social studies classroom to make meaning of non-fictional text?  Where better than a social studies classroom to analyze data tables and trends?

Yes, we need to learn history.  But honestly, we all carry around an incredibly powerful database for historical facts and figures at our fingertips.  We have to move towards these other keys components of the social studies curriculum – to analyze sources, cite textual evidence, compose cogent arguments, marshall statistical data, and perhaps most importantly, exercise our rights and duties as citizens.

So, I’m excited about the direction we are headed.

This week I did some classroom observations and debriefs known as “teacher learning walks” at one of our schools.  It’s a fantastic practice, similar to instructional rounds or lesson study, where teachers spend time observing their colleagues and then discussing what and how students were learning.  It’s the type of professional development I want for every teacher.

As we were discussing together, one of the teachers referred to the administrators and other guests in the group as “non-teachers.”   It was said very matter of factly.  No intention to offend or upset.  She was just trying to explain a point to those not working in the classroom. 

I like to believe I have the heart of a teacher, and that I have a strong teaching skill set.  Indeed, I find the art and science of teaching as a professional practice to be infinitely complex and fascinating.  I hope anyone who has watched me facilitate learning knows that it genuinely brings me joy.  

But when you choose to leave the classroom, a real choice is being made.  The title of a teacher is one I revere and admire tremendously.  Most of that reverence stems from an understanding of the work and dedication required over years to develop a rigorous, student-centered, and high quality instructional practice.  And I happen to agree to a large degree that you can’t qualify for the title when you aren’t doing that work.  There is a certain labor associated with it.  There is a camaraderie in the struggle that brings shared appreciation and shared empathy. 

Admittedly, I’ve never regretted the decision to leave the classroom to become an administrator.  I don’t get offended when people point out or emphasize my “non-teacher” status.  Some administrators fight it, holding on to their identity as a classroom teacher.  That’s actually a good thing, I think, to value and call upon your teacher perspective and awareness.  But in many teachers’ minds, if you aren’t currently in the classroom, you aren’t a teacher, and I don’t begrudge them that opinion.  

I have other practices and aspects of the work that I love – perhaps even equally to the practice of teaching.  I deeply enjoy the challenges of organizational management, of helping adults find their purpose and drive, of shaping educational institutions into more student-centered spaces.  I enjoy solving problems and challenges, designing learning spaces and experiences, and having a place at the table where decisions are made that impact teachers and classrooms across an entire system.  These are responsibilities I find compelling and necessary.  

I have conceded and rarely introduce myself as a teacher.  I’ve come to favor the title “educator.”  But I have to admit that being referred to as a “non-teacher” still comes with  a sting.

Great schools celebrate their students.

Pausing to take time to celebrate and recognize student excellence is in the DNA of most elementary schools.  The school year is filled with pizza parties, glow dances, certificates of achievement, and any other excuse to let students know they are on the right track.  In some circles perhaps it is seen as part of the over praising our kids – but I happen to think it’s just good feedback for kids.

Yet as kids get older, the opportunities to be celebrated seem to diminish.  Students are increasingly more likely to be called out for inappropriate behavior as opposed to efforts to reinforce the good.  By high school, it seems formal opportunities for recognition come primarily at the end of the school year in the form of awards assemblies and scholarship recognitions.

Last year, I attended a student recognition ceremony at one of our Intermediate Schools.  Parents were invited and students dressed up to be recognized for their academic excellence.  It was a genuinely touching experience to watch parents as they were invited to the stage to place a medal of achievement on their son or daughter.  Parents and children alike were glowing.

One of our high schools recently adopted a practice of dropping in on classrooms randomly to recognize outstanding student efforts and achievement.  Much like the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Prize Patrol, students are just sitting in class when a whole entourage of administrators, counselors, and other staff show up to celebrate.  Yes, perhaps it’s a little humiliating – but mostly it’s fun.

Last night, I was invited to a principal’s excellence ceremony held by one of our high schools.  Perhaps a little more traditional in nature, the event highlighted those students’ on the honor roll and who had perfect attendance.  The kicker came at the end, when the principal announced “front of the line” lunch passes for the students who had been honored that evening.  But it wasn’t just a one-time pass , or even a week-long perk.  Students received a pass for the entire semester!  Upon this announcement, the students in the auditorium were ecstatic. I would define it as spontaneous bliss.  It was almost comical to watch the students’ excitement.  Yes, I know, it’s perhaps a commentary on the drudgery of school lunch.  But it caught the students off guard – a true surprise from an institution that typically is anything but unpredictable.

It often doesn’t take a lot to signal that appreciation to students – “hey, we see you.  We want to celebrate you.  You’re moving in the right direction.”