Writing apologies for racist classroom actions

About a month before the end of school, I wrote my first apology note for colluding with racism in the classroom. I know this note will not be my last.

I used what I have learned from restorative practices over the years: Speak from the heart. Listen from the heart. Say just enough. Respect the talking piece.

The first thing I did was to listen from the heart. My student had yelled very loudly, "You're being racist!" I had been sure, even in that moment, that there was a level at which he'd been right. I needed to inquire into his perspective and into my own to understand as much as I could about how and why this had been true.

After meditating and reflecting and journaling about what had happened, I wrote him a letter.

Dear ___,

I owe you an apology.

I have been treating you unfairly. I have been calling you out for being disruptive in class more than I have called out others, and I agree with you that that is wrong. I need to not do that, and I pledge to be mindful of that from now on. 

I also realized that I have been pushing you harder than I push some of the other students in our class, and I realize that that is wrong too. My intentions were good ones: I see your brilliance and, as a citizen, I want to recruit people like you into leadership. Our leaders are lost, and my generation has really messed things up. I came back to teaching because teachers are the talent scouts of the future, and our country needs people like you in leadership.

But that is my stuff — not necessarily yours.

After you pointed out my biased treatment of you, I realized that you are right. I have been treating you differently, and that is wrong. It was wrong of me to try to impose my agenda onto you. It is also inconsistent with my own values because it is important to me that you be empowered and respected to choose your own goals and make your own decisions about how to lead your life.

So this letter is my attempt to clean up my own side of the street. From now on, I am going to do a better job of respecting your boundaries and keeping my personal agenda on my own side of the street.

I hope you can accept my apology.

With great respect and affection,

Dr. X

I asked his favorite teacher to give him the letter, knowing that, if I had tried to give it to him myself, he would have simply torn it up without reading it. I am a little ashamed about this part.

But if I am going to be an impeccable warrior in this fight, I need to accept that part too and be ruthlessly honest about moving beyond my own personal likes and dislikes. Everything I do needs to reflect the values I am trying to convey into this world.

My student and I never discussed the letter, but afterwards, I noticed a change in our relationship. For my part, I stayed focused on being as mindful as I could in my efforts to treat him and all students equitably. But I noticed a change in him too. He seemed to start showing up — really showing up —every single day in class after that. He left his earphones and his cell phone in his pocket and he was much more fully present in class than he had been all year. He advocated for his own learning and persevered in ways I had not seen before.

He was not perfect and neither was I. But we became a lot more relaxed around each other, and I got a felt sense that we understood each other a little better. We were both less defended and more porous and receptive to life. We could receive each other's humor better and learn from each other. All in all, we seemed to be moving together more harmoniously toward the goal of learning together. And that was what I truly wanted.

This is the compelling thing about restorative practices for me. They give us a way to continue forward together. I am pretty sure this is why Archbishop Desmond Tutu's memoir is titled, No Future Without Forgiveness. Rage won't heal the world. And an overly defended student cannot adopt an optimal learning posture. Since that is my deepest hope for all students in my classroom, I need to do everything in my power to make it an equitable place for every student so that can happen as often as possible.

Writing Kids Notes

So much is not going right in my new classroom, but some things are. One thing that is going right is my off-stage strategy of writing kids notes. Megan Hayes-Golding blogged about her teacher notecards a year ago, and right away I stole the idea. Megan is a genius. They are comic strip-style notecards with "Dr. S" at the top of the main thought bubble, surrounded by comic strip energy.

What do I write notes for? The answer is as individual as the kids themselves. Sometimes I write a note to compliment a student on her renewed focus in class. Other times I will write a note to thank a student for a particularly insightful contribution to our discussion or to our classroom community.

Sometimes I write a note to encourage a student's courage:

Dear ___ — 

Thank you for asking Mr. X if you could come to my room during 4th period for help with your completing the square homework. I was proud of you for advocating for yourself when you were not sure what to do. Once we got to the bottom of that one piece of confused thinking, you were completing the square like a champ. For future reference, once Mr. X has called over, you don't have to wait outside the door to come in — you can just come right in.

Keep at it, ___. This new approach you are trying out is really working. — Dr. S

Another powerful kind of note is an apology for something boneheaded or inadvertent that I have done.

Dear ___

I am writing to apologize for calling you __ [another student's name] the other day in class. I felt bad all day about that because I value you so much for all the energy and effort you bring to our class. I never want to hurt your feelings, but I could see that when I made that mistake, it really hurt your feelings. I hope you will accept my sincere apology for my actions.  — Dr. S 

In my new school setting, I notice a thousand times a day how teacher energy and attention and support are a form of currency in the classroom and whole-school economy. Notes become talismans that support new behaviors and learning patterns and most importantly, courage. They are tangible artifacts of social and emotional learning that is every bit as hard-won for a student's mathematical and academic development as their mathematical skills.

Whatever the circumstances from which they come, I want all of my students to grow up into compassionate and mindful persons of power in their communities.

Sometimes the competencies we need most to cultivate within students are social and emotional. Many times I notice that the lack of well-developed psychological or emotional resiliency blocks a student from being fully present in their mathematics and from taking even small risks with their learning. And if we want students to be accountable for their behaviors, then we also need to model being accountable for our own.

Dear ___,   Thank you for telling me what is not working for you in our class. In addition to showing great courage in your learning, you have also saved me from wasting more of everybody's time using the same old failed teaching ideas. From now on, I am going to do more direct instruction and note-taking practice at the beginning of class first — before we break into group work. I think that will help you and the whole class to get the main idea students need to be successful with our investigations and practice problems. Thank you for helping me to understand what is not working for you so I can find a way to do it better. — Dr. S

Notes can become treasures that help students remember to advocate for themselves. There's nothing secret inside their envelopes, but they heighten kids' awareness that something important has been going on and that I have noticed it. Most of my students have never been noticed at school for much of anything. But because they are amazing and growing human beings, they want it. Some of them want it bad. And that is a big part of the culture I am trying to create. I want students to want to receive positive acknowledgment of something they have done in class.

"Dr. S! Percy is trying to look at my letter!"

"Percy! Leave Q's letter alone! That is her stuff!" 

Sometimes this system of accountability touches a nerve. Sometimes it touches a heart.

A dented patchwork circle: new school, new impressions

This was my first week in my new school, which means I've been going through a few simultaneous transitions: (1) from middle schoolers to 11th and 12th graders, (2) from a 15-mile commute to a 1.5-mile commute, and (3) from a high-performing to a very diverse, high-need school.

I could not be more excited.

This first week was challenging because my partner-teacher and I were making a transition we could not inform them about fully until the end of the week. Also, he is beloved, which makes him a tough act to follow. But he is also my friend, so it was good, I think, for the kids to see that even math teachers have math teacher friends and that we are working hard to support them in a difficult transition. We did a restorative circle with Advisory so that everyone could be heard in the process of leave-taking, and we will do a round of circles with everybody tomorrow, Monday, to acknowledge the transition and to embody the process of support.

Our talking piece for circle practice is The Batman Ball — a small, inflated rubber ball with Batman on it that moved around the circle as each participant expressed his or her feelings about our shared situation.

What really struck me was their honesty and their authenticity. They honored the circle and each other. And they were willing to give me a chance. I know I will probably receive some of their displaced frustration and feelings of abandonment over the next few weeks, but they were making positive, honest effort that was moving to witness. For the guys in the class, it was especially hard. Most of them have at least one strong female authority figure in their lives, but for many of them, Mr. T was it — their one adult male role model: a young, whip-smart, kind, funny, warm, math-wizardy hipster with oversized glasses, a ready smile, and a heart the size of the ocean.

"Meetings end in departures," the Buddha said, but the fact that it's true doesn't make it any easier. They're still here, and now with me, but their hearts are going to be hurting for a little while. Plus we have finals coming up.

The other thing that made me happy to see was that they are incredibly capable math learners — more capable than they realize. Our department uses complex instruction pretty much exclusively, which was one of the reasons I really wanted to teach there. These gum-cracking wiseacres some of whom live in situations which are hard for most of us to imagine will sit their butts down in their table groups and do group work. I mean serious, collaborative mathematics.

The fact that they don't yet believe in themselves is a different problem. But that is a workable problem too.

My classroom is across the hall from the Special Ed department's special day class, and they are generous with their chilled filtered water and holiday cheer.

So tomorrow is another new beginning. I am trying to stay open and to notice and not to hesitate as I jump in. I am dressing warmly, drinking lots of water, and making effort to be present with an open heart. Looking forward to seeing what happens next.

Sometimes I teach, and sometimes I just try to get out of the way...

We are in the midst of our giant 8th grade culminating assessment extravaganza — a multi-part project that includes a research paper, a creative/expressive project, a presentation with slides, and several other components I'm spacing out on at the moment.

I have to admit something here: I used to be an unbeliever when it comes to projects.

I used to think they lacked rigor and intellectual heft.

But I was wrong.

Two years of this process has made me a believer in the power of project-based learning.

Sometimes the creative projects are merely terrific, but every year, there are a few that are incredible. This year, this has already happened twice... and only two projects have been turned in so far (they are due on Monday, 22-Apr-13).

Sometimes it is the quiet, timid kid who really blows my mind. Sometimes it is a kid who is kind of rowdy who reveals another, hidden side. But I never fail to be humbled at the potential inside each of these people, and I am honored to teach them.

So this is a reminder to myself that sometimes my job is simply to get out of their way.

Reflection on wallowing after the "Two Faces of 'Smartness'" workshop at the Creating Balance in an Unjust World conference

So yesterday I was at the Creating Balance in an Unjust World conference on math and social justice in San Francisco with Jason Buell (@jybuell) and Grace Chen (@graceachen), and I finally got to meet Brian Lawler of CSU San Marcos (@blaw0013) and Bryan Meyer (@doingmath) in person. They are (of course!) both terrific. I came away so impressed with Brian Lawler — a wonderful math education teacher and researcher as well as a fun guy and a total mensch, in addition to being my friend Sophie (@sophgermain) Germain's mentor. You should definitely follow him on Twitter if you're not already.

He and Jason and I crashed the "Two Faces of 'Smartness'" workshop session yesterday right after lunch, which was beautifully given by Nicole Louie and Evra Baldinger.  It was glorious to do math on the floor with Brian and Jason at the back of a classroom where about fifty math teachers from around the country had crammed ourselves in because we wanted to learn about this and well, honestly, we just didn't care about having to sit on the floor.

What was wonderful about it?

Well, first they are both such amazing, caring, reflective teachers and mathematicians. We were given an Algebra 1-style complex instruction group task and we worked on it deeply, in our own ways, for 15 or 20 minutes. There was so much respect for the others in the group, along with deep listening and amazing mathematical and teacherly thinking.

Some of that wonderfulness was wonderful for me was because of my own issues over the years with shame about my own mathematical thinking processes, which are usually quite different from those of other mathematicians and math thinkers I work with. Even after many years of intensive work, I still have a conditioned habit of abandoning my own thinking in favor of somebody else's — anybody else's — especially if they seem confident about their thinking. I have a sense that this is similar to what our discouraged math students often experience, the ones who prefer English class or music or social studies, because I was one of those students myself.

Jason is a middle school science teacher, so he also has a slightly different way of looking at math than Brian or I do. At one point he suggested that we verify our idea by counting the squares. Brian and I looked at each other dumbfounded for a moment, since that had not occurred to either one of us. I exclaimed, "What a great idea! It's so science-y!"

We laughed, counted, and continued our work together.

There can be such joy in a group task like that, but not if the group's working structure is set up with rigid norms that limit individual students' participation. Frankly, I just hate the "assigned roles" kind of group work because I find that it fails to reflect -- or prepare students for -- the kind of group work that happens in a real-world collaborative setting such as a software design meeting. There, engineers and product marketers and managers come together but are not restricted in their participatory roles. No one is limited to being a "recorder" or a "task manager." One person presents a starting point to kick things off, and from there everybody just jumps in with the best they have.

That's how we were working on the floor together yesterday. It was an organic, free-flowing process, and as a result, both the learning and the mathematical conversation were far more authentic than I've usually experienced in this kind of work.

There were also rat-holes — glorious rat-holes! — we chased down. At one point we had even (temporarily) convinced ourselves of the possibility of a quadratic formulation of the rule, even though we'd been told (by the title of the worksheet) that this was a linear growth function. After a few minutes, we punctured the balloon of that idea, and felt a little deflated ourselves. We'd been working for several minutes straight but unlike most of the other table groups, we had still not called the teacher over for even our first of three check-ins. I hung my head in discouragement. "We are fucked," I said. But then we laughed again, brushed ourselves off, and picked back up where we'd last seen something productive.

The end of the workshop activity involved reflection on what the others in our group had contributed to the process in a method known in complex instruction as "assigning competence." You highlight one of the key competencies that another group member demonstrated and you tie it to a positive learning consequence to which it had led us. For example, I appreciated how Jason had brought in ideas from the real-world thinking of science because it had added rigor and a verification mindset to our process. Brian appreciated how I'd been able to stay with my confusion and keep articulating it in a way that made my process visible and available for investigation.

This pleased me because it is something important I think I have to contribute. I call it my process of "wallowing." I have a deep and self-aware willingness to wallow in my mathematics.

One of the other teachers in the room asked me to say more about what "wallowing" meant, and at first I felt overwhelmingly self-conscious about speaking up. But then I remembered that (a) I was being asked by other math teachers who are passionately interested in understanding different ways of reaching students who have their own unusual relationships to mathematics, and (b) I had Brian Lawler and Jason Buell on either side as my wing men, and come on, who wouldn't find uncharacteristic courage in that situation?

So I told him that for me — and in my classroom — wallowing means learning how to be actively confused and developing a comfort and a willingness to stay present with that confusion while doing mathematics.

In much school mathematics, appearing confused is a frequent and constant source of unspoken shame. And so most people with any amount of self-regard quickly learn how to cover it up and hide it from view. I went through much of high school disguising my confusion and shame as thoughtful reflection. I became a master of avoiding humiliation in class by keeping my confusion well-hidden. If I didn't get *caught* being confused, then I couldn't be humiliated or shamed about it.

Later I would work through my confusion privately so I could show up in class always and only being able to raise my hand about something I felt I understood cold.

So I believe there needs to be a culture of allowing for wallowing in active confusion in our math classrooms. We should not be too quick to dismiss confusion or try to resolve it or spackle over it.  I would even argue we need to consider it a badge of honor and an activity worthy of our time, consideration, and cultivation. The only way to cultivate curiosity is to cultivate an environment that is supportive of wallowing — active engagement and presence in the process of being confused.

It is the deepest form of mathematical engagement I know, and it is thrilling, inspiring, and honoring to be a part of it. When a student experiences that euphoric, lightbulb moment of authentic, personal insight, we can be assured that the understanding it signals is not only deep but also durable. This is true because when you are actively confused about something, you are fully engaged in making your own mathematics. Whether it is a "big" idea or a "little" procedure, these moments of insight are the source of all intrinsic motivation. And isn't this the kind of reflective, metacognitive insight about student learning processes that we are hoping to cultivate?