Category: teaching

Community Curriculum Building #SOLC26 29/31

My mind keeps going back to Sherri’s post from earlier this month. In it, she quotes abolitionist organizer Mariame Kaba who says, “Knowing who to be mad at truly is praxis.” Sherri follows this quote with a number of questions we might consider when we think about our anger. In my comment I suggested that I should put them on a poster and have them next to my desk. 

After venting my spleen yesterday about the frustrations of teaching with no textbooks and little content guidance, I started thinking about Kaba’s statement again: who should I be mad at truly? Whether or not I should be mad at them, I realized that I’ve been targeting my anger at “the system” or, more to the point, “the government” and then joining in the chorus of cries about intentionally underfunding education. 

And look, probably “the government” should be providing more money and guidance here, but Jessica’s comment on my post reminded me that the opposite of no guidance can be far too much guidance. Very few teachers appreciate mandated programs – and sometimes these programs can be harmful (think of the mandated programs that did not use research-based ideas for teaching reading; think of the mandated programs now that only use part of the research). Glenda reminded me that even lists of suggested titles can function to place some ideologies over others. While I know these things, it was good to be reminded again that the solution to these problems is not easy. Lisa reminded me that this isn’t just happening in one place or at one school level.

I thought about these things on the way to the gym and, later, while I planned this week’s classes. My brain circled back to this as I texted my student teacher and then walked the dog. Eventually, I went back to Sherri’s post to re-read the questions she had posed as she thought about Kaba.

What is this about?
What’s at stake?
Who is involved and impacted? In which ways?
How am I contributing to this issue?
What is my role?
Who is harmed? By whom?

My brain noodled away over dinner. My ah-ha moment came when I realized that every time I’ve written about school this month, people have commented on the strength of our school community. They’re right: we have a great community. I also deeply value community, and one of my goals as a teacher is helping students feel confident about participating in society to the extent that they choose. These questions ask me to use my anger and frustration not to pull away from others, but to be in relationship with them.

Community, at its best, builds. I am contributing to the issue right now by pretending that I have no agency. And, while I cannot allocate more funds to education or create a curriculum coordinator position at the school board, I can still change my contribution to the issue. So… once March is over, my next challenge will be to reach out to English Dept Heads at high schools in my board and begin a spreadsheet that shows what we are currently teaching at various grade levels. I will ask if others want to coordinate to create a sort of internal what/ when/ why of texts we teach. I can share my criteria for choosing texts and see what others use. We can pool our knowledge to create flexible lists of texts that respond to students from all of our schools. I can use my frustration to make change. And if we, the teachers, create this content, we might be able to create something that is both useful and flexible.

The worst that happens is that it doesn’t work. The best that happens is that community – this writing community, the community of friends and colleagues who commented on my post, the community of teachers around me – creates something that serves students more effectively and helps teachers feel empowered and less alone. There is potential power in this; I’m pretty excited.

Is the textbook dead? #SOLC26 28/31

The first I hear of his plan is when he pops in to pick up something he has printed for a class, and I ask how his classes are going. I haven’t seen him in a few days, but that’s not surprising: he’s a new teacher with a full load of courses, and I know that’s tough. Still, he cheerily tells me all is well, then, in passing says, “So, about Hamlet: I think I’m just going to sort of, you know, touch on the main points and cover it in two weeks. You ok with that?”

I am not.

I have many layered reactions to his casual statement, but I also need to help another teacher set up for our provincial Literacy Test and then set up my own classroom, so I defer the conversation, suggesting that we meet soon. For the next few days, I consider what I want to say.

Nothing in our curriculum tells us to teach Hamlet. In fact, we have no required texts at any grade level. Our school board has not endorsed or purchased any French textbook series – or any textbooks at all. Instead, we are given the freedom to choose what to teach as long as we assess students based on the provincial curriculum. 

For some teachers, this is a dream. Complete freedom? Entirely up to the teacher? Wow! What respect! What trust! Imagine being able to meet your students where they are, being able to respond to the needs and interests of the students in the classroom. We could address bias head-on! We could re-shape what we teach! It sounds amazing, and I truly agreed with this perspective for a long time, but recently, I’ve been reconsidering this supposed freedom. 

A few weeks ago, the Toronto Star ran this article (with a clearly AI generated image that already betrays their bias).

The article – which is behind a paywall, so I can no longer access it or share it here – begins by weighing the pros and cons of paper textbooks (hint: they’re expensive and hard to update), but a) it seems to assume that we are possibly using electronic textbooks (we are not) and b) then quickly shifts to noting that, without textbooks, no one really knows what any one class is learning. There’s no continuity from classroom to classroom much less from year to year. In my experience, this is true – and it’s only the tip of the iceberg. 

Let’s start with French instruction as an example. I do not currently teach French, but I did for many years, and it’s a required course through grade 9 in Ontario. In grade 9, most high schools have a mix of students from several different middle schools. What did they learn last year? No one knows. With no textbooks and no clear year-to-year expectations, teachers are left to figure out what their students already know and what to teach them next. If we’re lucky, each school has a scope-and-sequence – but the only requirement to follow that is collegiality. If a middle school has more than one French teacher, the students from one school may arrive with different knowledge. Some years, I taught students who had studied animals, family members, colours and daily routine every year for four or five years. What should I teach next? Whatever I felt like.

Imagine, however, that a miracle occurs and the students all begin with a similar level of knowledge. Now, the teacher needs to a) decide what to teach next and b) create all the practice activities to help that learning occur. Every single one. No textbooks help guide this choice. A new teacher might find a mentor and get some guidance; AI might make worksheet creation a little easier – but really, the teacher is responsible for determining what comes next and how to teach it. 

I don’t want to shock anyone, but there’s good research available about effective language teaching. In fact, (some) textbooks even use that research. And there are reasonable resources available for teachers to use to support their students – but when the school boards stop buying these resources, individual teachers are left to create them over and over on their own – or to purchase them from other teachers online. School boards save money; teachers pay. And that’s just French. 

Where I teach, the science, math and geography textbooks are old, and there is no money for updated sets. I suppose we could offer students online textbooks, as the article suggested, but our board generally doesn’t approve subscription services (often required for these textbooks), and even if it did, not all of our students have access to Chromebooks or computers.

Luckily, English departments can just, you know, teach books. Right now, what limits our instruction is a) the books in our book rooms and b) what we, as teachers, have read. Unfortunately, because no books are required or recommended by our province or our school board, every bookroom has different books available. A teacher in their first few years of teaching who is still bouncing from school to school (standard in our board), may have to teach different books every semester, even if they are teaching the same grade level. What if they’ve never read that book before? Well, they’d better get reading. This explains why the young teacher I was speaking with just taught grade 12 students three short stories that my own children read in grade 8. There are *millions* of short stories out there, but to teach them you have to know about them. Instead teachers are left adrift, thinking not about how to teach certain texts or themes but rather what to teach. And, of course, the richer the school community, the more comprehensive the book room – which leads to an entirely different set of inequities.

Still, I don’t want to pretend we have no money: many years my school gets some money to purchase books that “reflect the students’ lived experiences.” This sounds great but is actually quite complicated. For example, I’m a department head, age 54 and an avid reader. For as long as I’ve been keeping track (and yes, that predates the internet), I’ve read an average of about a book a week. For the past ten or so years, I’ve read about 100 books a year – age along puts me literally thousands of books over a teacher who is twenty years younger than I am, if they read the same amount. Not to mention that I have my own reading preferences (no horror, thank you very much) and no one buys my books (well, except the public library – hooray for public libraries!) or pays me for my reading time. Every time our school has money, I am left to sift through titles to find books that are the right reading level, age range, length, topic and “lived experience.” Plus, of course, I need to find books that other teachers will actually teach. There’s no list of suggested books or set of criteria to help me with these decisions. I’m on my own, trying to determine what books students at our school should have available to study in their classes. What is students’ “lived experience” in a school where 60% of students speak a language other than English at home? where nearly 30% are new to Canada? How about in a school that both has the highest housing insecurity in the board AND encompasses several wealthy neighbourhoods? Whose lived experiences do I prioritize? What stories should we offer? (Fear not: I’ve developed my own criteria.) And, when I do make the decisions I am asked to make, I am left open to the attacks the article discusses: I can be vilified as a teacher activist who is deciding what students should learn based on my own priorities.

Let’s go back to the young teacher who has just told me that he plans to teach Hamlet in two weeks. He has been teaching for nearly seven months. This semester he has his first grade 12 English class – along with two other new classes to teach. The curriculum doesn’t require Hamlet, but, then again, it doesn’t require anything. We have some beat up old copies of Hamlet (donated to us from the richer school down the street), and he’s read Hamlet so he’s at least a little familiar with it. Has he read the other texts we have available? Probably not. Brother, The Book of Negroes, and Washington Black are all good books, but even though he’s deeply committed to equity, they’re not books he’s prepared to teach. And the school year doesn’t slow down.

Two days after that moment at the copier, we sit down to chat. I ask what his goals are for the two week unit (he sees it as a bridge, a moment when the students encounter hard text and realize they can make sense of it with some effort); I ask why he chose Hamlet (he wants to give them something hard AND something that will provide them with a toehold into a cultural dialogue they might not have encountered yet; he wants them to be proud of their understanding); I ask why two weeks (he has big plans because he is young and enthusiastic – I envy the students in his class who have a teacher with this energy) and who his students are and what he wants them to get out of the class and the text and… we talk for nearly 30 precious minutes. In the end, he realizes that Hamlet probably isn’t a two-week text for 12th graders. We make a different plan. It’s imperfect, and I will have to ask other (richer) schools for copies of the (still *extremely* traditional) book he’s chosen, but it’s more doable.

Meanwhile, every other grade 12 English class in the school will study Hamlet. Some of our students will read three of Shakespeare’s plays before they graduate; others will read none. Some of them will read books that, apparently, reflect their “lived experiences”; some will read all classics. Despite our departments’ best efforts, in French, some students will learn colours and animals again, and in English, some will read the same short story they read in middle school. Throughout the school, teachers will try to piece together what their students know, should know, need to know… then we will stay up late creating worksheets and handouts and slide shows that we used to get from a (deeply imperfect) textbook. Some of us will do the calculations and spend our own money on information other (tired) teachers have created.

Sometime in May, the board will tell the principals then the principals will tell the teachers that our biggest expenditure is on photocopying. We will be chided and told to be more aware and to print only what we need and to offer more things online. But no one will buy any textbooks. Apparently it’s saving the province money.

Truth-telling #SOLC26 26/31

The older I get, the more I enjoy meeting caregivers at conference night. (We used to call them parent-teacher conferences, but “caregiver” makes more sense – tonight I met a host parent/ guardian, several parents and an uncle – and also a very cute younger brother, but he was not a caregiver.) I especially enjoy when students come with their caregivers and we can chat together about how things are going. I love opening with compliments and watching people’s faces light up. I love asking the students to talk about what they’ve learned. I love learning more about each student and seeing how they interact with those who love them. Sure, it’s exhausting to do all of this after a full day of teaching – and with a full day of teaching ahead – but it’s usually worth it.

As you can see, however, my enjoyment is predicated upon compliments and discussions of learning – but not every student is making the kind of progress that will move them towards their goals. If things aren’t going particularly well, I am usually a fan of the compliment sandwich: good thing, slip in the complicated bit, good thing. This plays to my predilections: I have a penchant for looking for the good in people, especially if those people happen to be in my classroom. Still, I knew that my last conference tonight was going to be different: I needed to tell the parents the truth that their hard-working, loveable child needs extra support.

When I was younger, I probably would have danced around this issue a bit more, but I’ve been doing this for too long to fool myself. I’ve read this child’s school records and seen their progress through old report cards. This year, I’ve been working with them since September, tracking their reading fluency and comprehension: they started well below grade level and they’re not catching up in the way that I had hoped. I’ve sat with the student’s work for a long time, wondering what I can offer to support them. I can’t figure it out. The student is hard-working and enthusiastic, well liked by teachers and resilient enough to have overcome some of the bullying they endured in middle school. They play sports and have friends…but the truth is that I don’t see how a regular classroom with a regular number of students can support the growth they need. I’ve made suggestions along the way, of course, but tonight I had to tell the truth.

I could have spent the whole conference telling their caregiver how wonderful they are, and as the conference continued I kept coming back to that idea, but I reminded myself both before and during the meeting that the best thing I could offer was the truth. So, while I softened the data with phrases like “just a snapshot” and “may need more time” I still shared the data. When the student proudly pulled out their notebook to show their growth in writing – and they have grown! – I complimented the increase in volume, then took a deep breath and pointed out the spelling and grammar that made it almost incomprehensible. I did the same as I shared the books the student has been reading – far far below grade level.

Looking in the eyes of the people who have raised this child and telling them that they need more help than I can give them was hard. I felt sadness and a little shame – why can’t I fix this? Have I worked hard enough, tried enough strategies, offered enough support? I know that I have truly given this child everything I can in the confines of the classroom, but my heart only barely believed that when I sat in the conference.

Still, I told the truth – and then the real miracle occurred: their caregiver nodded and said “thank you.” And then, with the student as part of the discussion, we started talking about specific strategies that they could use at home. The caregiver took notes. The student seemed genuinely excited about strategies that might work. I was able to talk about ways to measure growth and outcomes. We agreed to try something, then speak again in a few weeks to see if things are progressing. I felt the same thing I often feel in the conferences I love: a sense of community. Here we were, teacher, caregiver, student, working together to set a goal and work towards it. And look, none of us are expecting miracles, but a little truth-telling might at least have set us all on a path towards improvement rather than stagnation.

After that conference ended, I chatted for a while with a colleague and let my brain and my heart settle. I hope that in the end the family went home feeling the same sense of community that I did. I hope that we can work together to help this child become a stronger reader because that is something they desire. And I know that with each conference like this, I become a little better at telling truths.

Drivel #SOLC26 25/31

I need to write. Yesterday I only posted a picture. I mean, it was a good picture, but a picture nonetheless, which is only sort of a slice of life – though now that I’m thinking about it, a daily picture as a slice of life would be interesting, too. But that’s not this challenge, so today I have to write. It’s March 25. Only six days left in this challenge. I’m not going to stop now.

It’s just that last night I was so tired that I fell asleep right after work and  slept for 12 hours – even though March Break just ended two days ago, so technically I should be refreshed. And today I could have done the same, but that seemed  a bit over the top, so I’ve made myself stay awake, eyes at half mast.

It’s just that today was busy at school because we’re running the Literacy Test – which is always oddly confusing despite arriving at predictable intervals and being largely the same every time. And Wednesdays my student teacher is at school and I like to, you know, actually spend some time with her so she learns stuff.

It’s just that today is the chaos class, and even though they’re *much* better after our pre-March Break – ahem – discussion, they still require a lot of attention in order to make it through a full class with any sort of learning.

It’s just that after school the dog wanted an extra long walk because the weather is getting nice, and Mr. 15 needed an extra kick-in-the-pants to finish his work because, well, he’s 15, and my spouse needed extra support because his work is tough right now. 

It’s just that yesterday was a Heads Meeting and tomorrow is Teacher-Caregiver Conferences and it seems that there is always so much to do, even though I swear my to-do list gets longer every day. When do teachers mark student work? I no longer know.

At any rate, this may be drivel but it is written – and written is at least something. Maybe tomorrow I will write something better – but not tonight.

Planner Love #SOLC26 23/31

I honestly don’t know how anyone teaches without a planner of some sort. Schools function in a series of intermeshing cycles – like gears of different sizes that each need to keep moving in order for the whole system to function. School days must sync with the weeks and the months and the rhythm of a semester and school year and calendar year. Then there’s the cycles within the class itself and, in high school, the four year cycle from entry to graduation. It gets complex.

On top of that, I teach four classes on a schedule that alternates daily between AB CD/ BA DC. Two of those classes meet every day in the morning; two meet every other day in the afternoon. One of the every day classes, Reading Skills, is a team-taught ongoing class with somewhat open enrollment: students “graduate” from the class when their reading skills are equivalent to learning needs. The other is a 12th grade University prep English class. The two afternoon classes are both grade 9 English, so I have to keep track of which class ended where.

This is why I need my trusty planner. For years I used the Happy Planner Teacher Planner & I loved it. The pages turn easily and there’s plenty of space for notes and lessons. But it was pretty cutesy and increasingly expensive and eventually I wanted something new. Then I discovered the Clever Fox Planner and fell hopelessly in love. It has an area called “schedule of school events” where I can see exactly what the whole school year will bring. When my colleague asked today when our comments are due for midterm, I flipped it open and – boom! – April 20. When is graduation? Got it? Retirement parties? On it. I can look at months or weeks and keep track of whose parents I’ve contacted. And I can take notes in meetings and find the notes again. Oh, and there are ribbon page markers – and have I mentioned the stickers? I get an inordinate amount of pleasure from putting in all the stickers. 

Here, let me take you on a tour of my amazing planner:

Mostly, though the planner holds some of the information that used to clog my brain. I know where we stopped watching Romeo and Juliet (down to the minute!) and what page we got to Long Way Down. I remember the new words we learned in Reading and have some idea how units will unfold in grade 12. I can see upcoming meetings and force my brain to coordinate school things and non-school things instead of double-booking. Offloading that into one place where I can find it brings me a measure of peace – and heaven knows I need as much of that as I can get. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I don’t know how anyone teaches without a planner.

Friday, Third Period #SOLC26 16/31

The door would not open. After spending most of lunch working to make the plans for this class just a bit more interactive – they were already fine, but I wanted better – I had nipped upstairs to the photocopier before the first bell. A few early birds were arriving as I left, so I called, “Be right back!” as they filed in and I rushed out. And I truly was right back – maybe three minutes had passed and the second bell hadn’t yet sounded when I found myself facing unexpected resistance from my own classroom door. 

This was not good. I (mostly) affectionately call my after-lunch grade 9 class the “Chaos Crew.” I’ve written about them before, most recently because this group of anything-but-work students chose Romeo and Juliet as a better alternative than anything I had planned to teach. It’s a full-inclusion class, so there are only 18 students, and the kids vary widely on every metric you can imagine. At any given moment, a lot is going on. At this moment, someone was preventing me from opening my classroom door.

I announced myself loudly and pushed harder. The door gave suddenly. Two students stumbled back. Others were on their feet. Voices overlapped at various volumes. Amidst the chaos, I registered important information: a student who has been the target of relentless low-level bullying (mostly not in my classroom) and a student who I have suspected since late September as a primary bully had nearly come to blows. I was not impressed.

My teacher-voice was clipped: “Sit. Down.” I addressed the class while pinning the two perpetrators in place with my eyes. The others moved. “Do. Not. Move. From your seats.” They stilled. The push-in support teacher had not yet arrived, but the sheer chaos had alerted another colleague and she was already at the door, ready to help. “You two. With me.” I turned on my heel and moved towards the door.

“But, Miss, I didn’t do anything,” the whining began. “It was him.”

I had no patience for this nonsense. I whipped around and said, “I didn’t ask if you did anything. I told you to come with me.” The bully complied. The bullied had taken up his defensive stance: threatened, he turns himself into an immovable mountain and refuses all verbal or eye contact. Unphased, I said to the bully, “With me.”

“But he started it! You can’t just leave him here!” 

“I can and I will. What happens with him is no concern of yours. With me. Now.”

He complied. As we passed my colleague and the support teacher (who had come running), I nodded toward the mountain-child and whispered, “Help him get to the office, too. If he won’t move, call admin.”

The bully spat excuses all the way to the office door. A VP saw us coming, took one look at my face and said, “I’m on it.” As I hurried back to the classroom, I saw the second student coming, escorted by my colleague. He, too, told me that it wasn’t his fault. I ignored him.

In the room, students were tittering and laughing. The minute I walked in, they started defending their friend – the bully. I shut the door firmly and walked to the front. My face must have been tornadic because when they saw me, they all stopped talking. And then I tore a strip off of them. In fact, I tore several strips off of them. I do not remember the last time I have been so angry at a group of students. It might be never. Because, of course, the bullying hadn’t been just this one time. It never is. Last week, five boys had been suspended from their math class (same group of students, alternating days with English class) for their behaviour towards this same child. Two more freely acknowledged that they would have been suspended had they not been in the bathroom or talking to the teacher – aka in trouble. By my count, that means 8 of 18 are actively involved in this ongoing situation. The other 10 are either encouraging this (3 or 4, it’s hard to tell), trying to ignore it, or hiding so that they’re not next.

Until Friday I had not witnessed a single send-to-the-office offence. Once, in late September or early October, I had spoken one-on-one with two students and insisted that they change their behaviour or risk phone calls home. Both boys were vaguely contrite; both were careful not to be caught again. Both, of course, continued. Bullying is wildly frustrating to catch. It’s easy to see a wad of paper land, but much harder to see who threw it. It’s easy to catch the reaction when the targeted child finally lashes out; it’s hard to catch the provocation. I can talk to students one-on-one or in a group, but in the end, they have to change and, in my experience, they rarely do. 

But they might now. To say I was livid on Friday is an understatement. I told them I was ashamed of them, that I was embarrassed to teach them. I told them that this was the very definition of bullying, that people who behave in this way are cruel. I told them that if my child were accused of doing this, my heart would be broken. When ring-leaders claimed that they had done nothing and shouldn’t feel bad, I offered to call their parents and invite them in. I said I would happily sit with them while they explained to their parents precisely the kind of nothing they had done. When someone smirked, I reminded them that they were smirking because they were unkind. I said, “after this class, when you laugh in the hallway because ‘Ms Potts went crazy’, I want you to remember that you are laughing because you are unkind.” Again, someone insisted they had nothing to do with this – someone who definitely had a lot to do this. “You’re right,” I said. “You’ve done nothing. You’ve never laughed when your friends did this. You’ve said nothing mean or cruel about [your peer]. When your friends behaved badly, you stood up and said, ‘lay off, man – he doesn’t deserve that.’ Right?”

I spoke for maybe three endless minutes, and finished my tirade with this, “Every one of you who is thinking that this is not about you needs to take a long hard look at who you really are because way back in September, you had a choice: you could have chosen to lead with kindness. Any person in this classroom could have said hello, could have offered to help, could simply have been polite. You could have led with kindness but not one of you did. Imagine what this class could have been if only you’d made a different choice.”

And then I asked them to open Romeo and Juliet. As you can imagine, they did. One child had tears in their eyes. Slowly, slowly, we made our way through the next scene. I did nothing exciting or interesting with it. We just worked. Twice a student started to lose focus. Twice, I stopped and told them that I was no longer entertaining students’ arguments for their own limitations. The second student sheepishly asked what that meant. I explained that I refused to believe that the students in this class were particularly incapable of learning, that I *knew* they were smart and capable, and that I would spend every minute I had with them until they graduated from high school to insist that they could both learn and be kind. I got a quick nod in reply.

Slowly, over the rest of the period, they decided that Romeo is possibly an idiot (they are not pleased that he starts the play in love with someone who is NOT Juliet), that Paris is “a creep” and that Benvolio might be the coolest of the characters they’ve met so far. At least he seems like fun. 

As they worked, I checked in on some of the students and left some others alone. The student who had been teary simply said, “when you said to imagine the class if we’d been kind, I realized that it could have been beautiful.” By the time class ended, the emotions in the room were mostly cooled. As the students left, some stopped to thank me. A very few stopped to apologize. My co-teacher paused on her way to her next class to congratulate me.

Once everyone was gone, I closed the door and cried.

Friday, Second Period #SOLC26 15/31

Some of the grade 12s have already found their seat before the students from period 1 have entirely cleared out, but somehow the bell still sneaks up on us. As the announcements play, I observe that a lot of students are wearing green and comment out loud before remembering that today is “fake” St. Patrick’s Day since the real one falls during March Break this year. One thing leads to another and soon we are looking up St. Patrick and why people celebrate St. Patrick’s day. Didn’t he drive something out of Ireland? Rats? Cats? (Snakes. It was snakes – though that part’s a legend.) Why do Canadians care if someone drove snakes out of another country? Umm… they don’t. 

Our conversation meanders and morphs and I point out that the Irish were considered highly undesirable when they first came over, and talked about how many nationalities and ethnicities struggle, even today, to find a foothold in a new place. Yes, even in Canada. Somehow the idea that Irish people were considered “nonwhite” comes up, and students are shocked. I disabuse them of this – the idea that Irish people were ever viewed as entirely non-white is pretty clearly false – but they are puzzled by the idea that race could be so malleable. I take a deep breath. 

Soon, we are talking about the idea that race is not, in fact, a purely biological construct, that what societies notice and separate and categorize as different races changes over time. No matter how many times I have explained this, the idea is always hard for students to take in. Today, I am able to use the wide array of skin tones in the classroom to show that “white” makes no sense. We all agree that I am “white” but my skin is clearly not the palest in the room. From there, I move to my family – are my niece and nephew white or Latino? The answer is obviously both, but when they move through the world, they will likely be viewed as one or the other. From there, I move to the author Lawrence Hill, who has generously shared his family background with his readers. We talk about the “one drop” rule and the labeling of humans as “quadroons” or “octaroons.” The students have questions.

At one point, someone asks if I see gaps between how Canadians understand race or racism and how Americans do. Now that is an interesting question. I give it some thought. One thing about Americans – at least when I lived there – was that we couldn’t pretend that slavery hadn’t existed. Canadians too often like to think that we did not benefit from the enslavement of human beings. We did. I tell my students today that I gave up teaching Lawrence Hill’s The Book of Negroes a few years back when I tired of my annual attempt to convince that one recalcitrant white kid that slavery really was that bad. Like… sir, allowing an enslaved human being to learn to read and write does not negate the fact that you consider them property. My current students are horrified. We talk about how much has changed in the last 15 years, the last 40  years. I tell them about how I was raised “not to see color” and how I had to learn that whiteness too often obliterates other perspectives. Eventually, I tell them that I need us to move on, that we’ve got plenty to think about for a while, and we settle in for some quiet reading.

I use reading time to check in with various students. Did they feel heard? Did I miss something? One student calls me over and thanks me – no one ever talks about this, she says. I thank her and ask her to bring up anything that needs to be discussed in the future. Another student asks what books I have that address these issues. I pull Stamped from the Beginning, Homegoing, Beloved… she and her friend start thumbing through these, eventually choosing different books and sliding them into their backpacks to read over break. The class calms and breathes. We’ve gotten off topic – how did wearing green lead us to slavery? I muse – but I believe this digression was well worth it.

After reading, we begin our first Socratic Circles of the semester. “Does walking away constitute meaningful action or is it merely an escape?” In groups of 8, fishbowl style, the students engage in thoughtful discussion about justice, utilitarianism, cowardice and whether or not anyone has the right t make decisions for others. Every student speaks. Everyone is engaged. It is a minor miracle.

Just before the end of the class period, I show students the “graphs” of each discussion. We talk about how good discussions allow everyone to participate in their own way while making sure that everyone feels welcome. It’s ok to talk more or less, to indicate agreement by leaning in or nodding. This class has done exactly that. When I point this out, one student counters with, “Yeah, but like six people were absent.” True, but I’ll take the wins where I can get them. When the bell rings, I tell them honestly how incredibly impressed I am with them. 

A few linger to discuss books (“Hear me out, Miss. What would you say to teaching Catcher in the Rye after Hamlet?”), but most head off to lunch. I am tired but elated. What an amazing pre-break class.

Friday, First Period #SOLC26 14/31

The bell has rung, but attendance is sparse on this last day before our March Break. The students who have made it to class on time occupy two ends of a spectrum: they either have their head down on the desk and appear to be asleep or they have a serious case of the sillies and are taking up a lot of space. This is more or less normal: First Period is Reading class, and not all of the students are entirely enthusiastic about starting their school day learning how to read – whether or not the next week is a holiday.

After the anthem, we go through the usual rigamarole: Phones away, take your earbuds out. No, really, the phone needs to be away. I know that you still have your earbuds in under that hoodie. Wake up. Waking up means sitting up. Seriously, put the phones away… and begin our daily routine:  CNN10 to increase our background knowledge, develop our vocabulary, and support our ability to read. One student remembers he’s supposed to be on a field trip and dashes out of the room. We wake another one up for the third time.

Holidays loom over this group. Some of the students are looking forward to time off; others definitely are not. As a result, we need a balance between routine and understanding today. People are unsettled; we want to set them up for calm as best as we can. Today is not a day where we can expect a lot of reading practice – because learning to read is exhausting. So after the news, we play a few word games then switch to our CNN10 vocabulary Kahoot. Our students can now reliably read and define words like surreal, innovative, feline and replicate and my colleague and I are extremely proud of them. Plus, it’s fun.

As the students log in, one – no seriously, I know you are listening to music – tries for the millionth time to convince us that he doesn’t need to play. Today, with the small class and the extra time, I am able to take a chance. “Hey,” I say, “let’s take a walk.” My colleague nods; she can handle the classroom. He ducks his head, embarrassed, but agrees.

Walking with students is a teacher trick. There’s something about being on the move, side by side, that lets people talk in ways they might not in a classroom. In this case, I lead with one of my favourite questions, “So, tell me about not playing Kahoot. What’s up with that?”

He doesn’t know, of course, except that he doesn’t like it. It’s stupid and it’s too easy and the words are too hard or too weird or too useless. He also requires quite a bit of daily cajoling to watch the news – and the vocabulary comes from there – so, since we’re walking, I ask about that, too. He doesn’t know why he hates it. He doesn’t know why he hates it all. He wanted to be in this class, and he knows we fought to get him in, but now… We walk and talk, talk and walk. 

In one stairwell, four boys are letting the recycle bins they just emptied slide down the stairs with a satisfying (nearly deafening) clatter and bump. I stand still, watching, until they see me, blush and leave. The student I’ve been talking with snickers a little. In a hallway, we encounter a student who we just saw in another hallway. There, he told us he was going to class. That class is not here. I tell him I’ll check his classroom in a few minutes to make sure he’s made it, but for now I’m focused on the child next to me, so I don’t have time to chase a different one.

This child, the one I’m walking with, is deeply uncertain about why he’s unwilling to participate in so many of our reading activities. After 15 minutes of walking, he still can’t quite articulate his concerns, but it’s somewhere between really wanting to learn to read and being horrified that “everyone” knows he’s in a class for people who can’t read. I tell him – not for the first time – that even the parts of the class that aren’t actively reading (like watching the news) will still help him with learning to read. He nods, but I know he’s not convinced. Nevertheless, he agrees that, for today, he will try the Kahoot with the hard vocabulary. 

I drop him back in the classroom, head back to check on the wandering student, and get back to class in time to watch the last – triumphant – round of Kahoot. When the bell goes, the kids tear out of the room, saying over their shoulders, “Have a good break! See you in a week!” and my colleague and I share a quick conversation before the next class comes in. 

Nothing has been solved. Nothing has changed. Still, the walk was a start; next time, in a few weeks maybe, my colleague will walk with him. Step by step, we’ll figure things out together. But now it’s time for a different class.

Countdown #SOLC26 12/31

Earth Date, March 2026
Context: Ramadan, Lent, war in Iran, the week before March Break

Monday, Break -5: Finally succumbing to whatever bug has been decimating attendance, I stay home sick; some students do some of the work I’ve left for them.

Tuesday, B -4: Student walk out (to protest provincial changes to education) starts at lunch and continues into the afternoon; workers in the neighbourhood accidentally cut the power lines; things goes dark; school is dismissed early.

Wednesday, B -3: Major ice storm predicted; buses cancelled; teachers must attend school but students do not; I have a total of two students attend class; in the end, the freezing rain mostly misses us.

Thursday, B -2: Intruder in the school; “secure the school” called during morning classes; person is “given support”; afternoon classes continue as normal; student attendance is dwindling; everyone is exhausted; one day to go.

Friday, B -1: Do we even want to imagine what might happen tomorrow? We had a fire alarm pull last week, so that’s done. We haven’t had a flood, but I feel like ice sort of covers water issues. Earthquake? Tornado? Unexpected solar eclipse? Time out of joint? Cross your fingers that we make it to our break.