After three days of “professional development” school is finally going to start. The three days of meetings that proceed the first days of school are usually a mind numbing expedition into the oxymoronic. This year was, however, a marked improvement. 3 out of our 4 administrators did simple things to make their sessions relevant and useful and timely.
Our schools goals and trainings are centered around the new (or more accurately - renamed) C-SIP. The C-SIP is the Continuous School Improvement Plan. This document, previously known as the Transformation plan, explains how we will make sure all of our students are meeting standard. Meeting standard is one of my favorite pieces of educational jargon. What it translates to is pass the test. In our case the test is the Student Assessment of Student Learning.
Cultural Competence and Differentiated Instruction (two more tasty bits of jargon that actually have some solid ideas behind them) are the corner stones of the C-SIP. The funny thing is, one of the foundational ideas for both Cultural Competence and Differentiation is a recognition of the fact that different students need different assessments to show that they are learning. At the end of the day, we only have one assessment. How this makes sense is something I try not to think about too hard because the only conclusion I can come too is that there is some basic change that happens to someone when they enter the halls of the legislature and are asked to craft or vote on educational policy that prevents them from simple rational thought.
The encouraging thing is that the people who have the biggest impact on student experience are invested in a more expansive and appropriate view of education. The teachers and Administrators I work with are, for the most part, genuinely committed to creating a place where all students can find opportunities to grow and learn.
I have always liked the poetry of Gary Snyder. He is, most of the time, without pretension and speaks in a clear voice of things that I feel a deep affection for. I have been reading Danger on the Peaks, a collection of poems and prose meditations published in 2004. I wanted to share two bits that I have enjoyed reading today:
From “The Climb”
Step by step, breath by breath - no rush, not pain. Onto the snow on the Forsyth Glacier, over the rocks of the Hogshead, getting a lesson in alpenstock self arrest, a talk on safety and patience, an then on to the next phase: ice. Threading around crevasses climbing slow, we made out way tot summit, just like Issa’s
“Inch by inch
little snail
creep up Mt. Fuji”
Dr. Coyote When He Had a Problem
Dr. Coyote when he had a problem
took a dump. On the grass, asked his turds where they lay
what to do? The gave him good advice.
He’d say “that’s just what I thought too”
And do it. And go his way.
The teacher next door was suspended last week for refusing to proctor the WASL. He argues that it is damaging to students, teachers, schools and families. (You can read his thoughts here.) His actions grow out of personal frustration with his own articulation of problems with WASL yet his complicity in the very problem he sees.
This raises a very interesting issue for me. I find that the system I teach in explicitly and implicitly asks me to do things in my teaching that I personally have problems with. WASL is but one of these things. I teach in a system that is dominated by a simple behaviorist model. Do the right thing and get a reward, do the wrong thing and get a consequence (punishment). There is little room to take joy in learning and even less time to follow tangents. Our system seems designed to train good workers and to frustrate original thinkers. What keeps me in, and leads to my dilemma, is that every so often there are moments of profound learning.
These times are far and few between and seem to come at the least expected moments. As a rule they happen when I am teaching things that fall farthest outside the traditional (standards mandated) scope and sequence of curriculum. These moments keep me teaching. I struggle figure out what lead to them and how I can make them happen again.
Is this right? Should I continue to help to prop up a system that is successful only at things I care little for or should I get out and find a place where my values extend beyond my own classroom?
The example of Mr. Chew is powerful. I feel more and more that I have to take some action or find a new place. Fitting in does not seem like the right thing to do.
This is not really a media opinion. It is more of a rant about the way that the term research gets used in the formation of public education policy.
The term research has ceased to have meaning and has taken up an almost magic quality. It is used to trump ideas and quash discussion as well as to endorse specious policy. It seems like it has gotten worse this year.
At the start of this year, during the mandatory professional development time teachers participate in before the beginning of school, we listened to a presentation dealing with the “9 Traits of High Performing Schools” (You can read the traits here.) This was a perversely fascinating presentation. The presenter chose, presumably in the interest of time, to only present 2 of the traits. What drew me in (and infuriated me) was not the content. There is nothing, on the surface, wrong with these traits. What stunned me was the way that the presentation showed an absolute disregard for the logic of research.
The presentation began as the normal staff meeting drone and looked to be a pre-lunch time filler of little consequence until some staff members began to ask questions. There were two questions that got me interested. The first dealt with the definition of one of the terms in the presentation title. How the study defined the term “high performing”. To my surprise, the presenter did not know and moreover did not seem to care. I don’t think it occurred to him to wonder about this and he seemed surprised that I would ask. It was research, and I should not worry about it.
I guess I should not be surprised. The term “High Performing” is so positive, so desirable that we should not be worrying about what it is, instead we should just focus on achieving this high performance. To think too hard about what it means to be high-performing and whether this is what we want (as a building, state or country) for our children is fruitless navel gazing. We should focus on the traits.
I was still sitting in sort of a perplexed silence when another teacher asked a logical question. If someone were to do the opposite of these traits would the school not be high achieving? This is a wonderful question about the ideas of necessity and sufficiency. In short did the result the research claim come as result of the traits presented or some as a result of some other heretofore unconsidered factor. Again the presenter seemed annoyed (or confused) by the question and continued to describe the wondrous traits without acknowledging the question.
It was research! How could it be wrong? Why should it be questioned? It is research!! Just hear it and do it!
The way that this work is presented on the State of Washington’s website indicates this reluctance to present a full picture of research. The page presents a list of 9 traits as “Common characteristics of High Performing Schools” and then a list of traits. This is list of traits is proceeded by the question, “What makes a Successful School?” (Clearly, it must be these traits!) Following the list is short explanation behind the list.
There are a series of citations at the bottom of the page and each trait links to a further list of citations. No where, though, does the state define what the consider a high performing school to be (nor, do they for that matter, offer a definition of a successful school). It is not hard to read between the lines of the 9 traits and see that “high performing” (an thus successful) schools are schools that do well on tests like the WASL.
To be fair, a comprehensive list of citation is included. This list is a wide ranging collection of studies (all between 1990 - 2003, I am left to guess that no new ideas about high performing schools have been generated in the last 4 years) and all it would take for me to find out the specifics of the studies and the answers to my questions would be a free afternoon and access to the ERIC database and a quality educational research library.
I don’t think, though, that the state is including the citations to encourage me to research. I think that the inclusion of the citations is meant to demonstrate the seriousness and credibility of the traits. Often times, particularly in the face of real questions from classroom teachers, the response is, “This has been very well researched and we know it works.” The translation: “Look, lots of really, really smart people wrote a paper full of numbers and tables about this, so you don’t have to think so hard about it. See, look at this long list of studies.”
The fact that a research is only really useful if you know the definitions of the terms, the population researched and the research protocol seems insignificant to policy makers. It is the brief, sound-bite like conclusions that get the attention.
The problem with all of this is that teachers seem to be encouraged (although many need no incentive) to delegate personal critical thought (which is messy, hard and time consuming) to administrators and policy makers. If the administrators and policy makers prove to be wise and critical thinkers this could be an efficient move. All too often, however, those in leadership positions do what the presenter at my school did, they accept the cure-all program from above and pass it on as gospel truth without putting in the necessary critical thought. Orthodoxy is trumping truth in the form of “research”.
A friend of mine turned me onto the blog Language Log. This compendium of things linguistic has been quite a distraction to me lately. The links below are to a couple of posts I particularly enjoyed.
Starbuck’s Drink Names
I found this to be a nostalgic, if hackneyed, criticism of the naming conventions of Starbuck’s beverages. I like the idea of an “uno”.
The Power of Neuroscience to cloud peoples minds
I think that an analogous argument can be made about the power of research. Of course it would take some research to show this.
If nothing else, this blog will appeal to your inner language snob.
It’s just not the same anymore. Were we the only family to have dinner at Sunflower Bakery on a regular basis? One of the perks of moving to 65th Street was going to be our proximity to Sunflower and their burger, crab cake sandwich, pie, spinach salad and thoughtful dinner specials. But alas, Sunflower seems to be in a slow decline. The lunch menu is the same as always but I fear for the future of my favorites.
Sunflower was always the place we could go for comfort food in the evening until, many months ago, they stopped serving dinner. Sunflower was at its best a few years back in the hands of a previous partner/owner who was also a wine aficianado. When the lanky, red bearded gentleman was creating the dinner menu, the specials and their wine pairings were not to be missed. Sean and I always felt a little young frequenting this quiet, genteel cafe; it drew an older neighborhood crowd. But we were looking for the same thing the older crowd was looking for: tasty food, better than we could make at home, nice presentation in a casual atmosphere. Sometimes a single classical guitar player with a long gray ponytail would be preforming in the corner and we felt like true Seattle insiders. Sunflower was a place a visitor to the area would never find.
We frequented Sunflower for breakfast too for many years. To our annoyance we noticed the weekends getting busier and busier, as if our hidden cafe’s breakfasts had been published in a “Best of Seattle” guide book. We didn’t notice the decline in evening diners but that may have been because we loved never having to wait, how quiet the room was in the evening, how personal the service. Apparently the restaurant books reflected a growing disparity between the cost of serving dinner and the number of us showing up to take our usual seat and order. Clearly, the breakfast eaters were the bread and butter.
Just the other day Sean and I had a craving for a crab cake sandwich (see August issue of Gourmet Magazine) and we decided to head up to Sunflower to have lunch before they close at 3pm. When we got there I noticed with dismay that “due to increased heat in the summer” Sunflower Bakery will now be closing at 2pm. What does increased summer heat have to do with eating lunch? I can’t help but see this as the writing on the wall for the Sunflower savory standards. The Carmelized Peach and Berry French toast will probably last, as will the Smoked Salmon Eggs Benedict, but then, it is hard not to make a good breakfast.
Snowden does not like riding in the car. Depending upon her mood, her reaction to the car seat ranges from quiet dissapointment to full display of arch-backed, screaming anger. The latter is the norm when she is tired. Without fail we can turn on the cd player and as the first strains of “Night Owl” flow from the back speakers Snowden quiets down and sometimes falls asleep.What is it about this song? We can not figure it out.
Thankfully, E an I also like Dan’s music. Simple arrangements of singable original songs and skillful renditions of standards and folk music make this a tolerable cd to listen to multiple times. The inclusion of Father Goose (Rankin’ Don) and his Dance Hall rhyming, along with a bunch of other guest artists, only add to the odd and appealing pastiche.
The greatest thing about Dan Zanes is that he really seems to be interested in exposing kids to music and not just selling cd’s. He has a pretty cool website where you can download copies of chords and lyrics to all his songs. Now we can play and sing this wonderful music live.
Go Dan !
From the street it is a hole-in-the wall restaurant that looks more like a little take out deli than a place for lingering over a meal. It looks like it would feel crowded, there are only a handful of small tables inside. But, with the nice weather a sign appeared on the sidewalk advertising that the patio was open, which piqued my interest. If I get to dine outside, I care far less about the food. Unfortunately most Seattle restaurants seem to know this. The next time Sean and I walked by, we read the posted wine list. They have an extensive selection of wines by the glass all for around $5. I peered through the dark interior to try and glimpse the patio out back. I noticed that it was covered with a white tent and looked like a well kept secret.
A few weeks after we had poked around the restaurant, Patti and Terry called us to meet for dinner upon their return from Wisconsin. Snowden had been in the car a lot that day so we didn’t want to drive her anywhere. It was a warm evening, threatening thunder showers. It seemed like a good time to try Casa D’Italia and sit outside under the tent. The patio was perfect, like a backyard full of lanterns and little garden tables. The plants were thick and fragrant around the perimeter and the white tent roof, grimy on close inspection, felt cozy and quaint when a heavy rain was let loose from the glowering clouds. I dipped a slice of sourdough baguette into the olive oil. The olive oil was so fruity and fresh tasting that I felt like stating some maxim I’ve never actually heard before: “you can trust the food to be as good as the olive oil served with the bread”.
The specials presented on a chalk board were amazingly exotic and varied to come out of such a small kitchen, yet familiar and inviting enough to want to try (and thankfully not read out to us in an exaggerated Italian accent by a young person you just know chose the name “Gino”, little immortal one, as if working in an Italian restaurant is like joining foreign language club in high school). I felt no anxiety about what to order. When the specials were read I did not mentally reject any dish, nor did I feel torn that there were too many options that sounded too good to be true. Rather, at Casa D’Italia I felt that anything I ordered would taste delicious but not come to the table so adorned and belabored that I felt that I must somehow live up to the dish myself. Sean chose Antelope and Boar sausage with peas and a pasta side. I decided on Pasta a la Vodka because I love it and Casa D’Italia seemed, by this point, a place that could really do a classic right.
My huge plate of penne was done al dente. Perfect. The sauce was smoky and herbal and not heavy with too much cream. Usually I loath giant portions because the pasta sticks together or is overly oily; I don’t want to eat the leftovers nor waste half of what is presented to me. At Casa D’Italia, my first bite and I was already looking forward to tomorrow’s lunch! Sean’s plate was beautiful: succulent sausages surrounded by plump bright peas on a dark plate, but I can’t speak to the flavor because he ate every last bite without offering me even a taste. I had a glass of Orvieto, a white wine I like because it is not as dry as a Pinot Grigio but still herbacous with a slightly bitter after taste, and not aged in oak (bitter, herbal flavors are a good thing in my book-right up there with the pairing of fruit and meat in a dish). Throughout the meal our water was filled but the wait staff didn’t feel the need to keep checking in on how we liked the food. We were eating in an enchanting backyard and the main dishes were far superior to anything I can make at home, I did not want to be interrupted and reminded that this was a restaurant, a place of business.
For desert I opted for the “don’t miss” ricotta cheese cake. It was delicate in texture, and flavorful, but more like a yellow cake from a Spanish bar that one would have for breakfast than a luscious desert. Sean and his parents opted for the daily special, an amaretto layer torte. The torte was the better choice. This time I did get a bite of Sean’s. The layers were distinct, the amaretto was not overpowering and the texture that of a mousse between ladyfingers.
I had almost revised my restaurant expectations based on the abundance of mediocre dining experiences I’ve had over the last few years but Casa D’Italia is serving the food and everything else I want in a restaurant, right up the street.
Winter on the Pacific Coast; drenching fogs cling to the craggy coast, swirling in offshore winds to occasionally reveal towering conifers or stolid sea stacks. Even as far south as Vancouver Island, snowstorms may unexpectedly blanket sandy beaches with an incongruous dusting of wet snow. Swells on the horizon look ripples of blown glass until they shatter with foaming ferocity on the broken coast. The thought of setting out in an open boat into this churling miasma of weather, water and rock is a sobering thought. It almost seems unreal that the tribes of the Coast would set out into these conditions without map or compass to hunt whales. It seems even more improbable that a trio of white men, unschooled in the ways of coastal canoe travel could make their way in this wilderness.
During the winter of 1852-53, a letter to the editor of the Oregon Weekly Times reports that oystermen at Shoalwater Bay (now known as Willapa Bay) encountered three men, “the perfect pictures of misery and despair”, who had completed an improbable canoe voyage down the Northwest coast. These three had paddled a cedar Tlinglit canoe from the Russian outpost of New Archangel to a muddy bay a few miles north of Astoria in order to escaped indentured servitude in the Russian colony. The details of this remarkable journey are not reported in this letter. We are left to speculate what these men experienced.
Wallace Stegner writes that, “Any good serious fiction is collected out of reality, and its parts ought to be vivid and true to fact and observation.” Good fiction starts with a core of truth and then crafts this truth to show a story. The incredible story of this canoe journey provides the requisite reality for Ivan Doig’s, The Sea Runners.
In The Sea Runners, Doig tells the story of an escape from the drizzle and mud of the Russian economic outpost of New Archangel in what is now southeast Alaska. The men of this colony, mostly Scandinavian sailors who grew up sailng the Baltic sea and North Atlantic, signed on to work as able sea men on Russian Steamers or to swing axes in the mythical forests of the North arrived to shifting economy.
The sea otter had been hunted to near extinction and Salmon canning had yet to emerge as the new cash cow. As a result these Scandinavian workers spent little time at sea, but instead at hard manual labor in the forests harvesting timber and along the coast collecting edible seaweed and shellfish. Some worked in fisheries, harvesting salmon and then salting it for later consumption. To deal with the difficult conditions and isolation many men turned to gambling and alcohol. These diversions were often pursued with money borrowed from the Russian American Company who ran the outpost and this debt kept many men working far past their initial contract.
Doig’s story follows the daring escape of four Swedes. The beauty of the story is that it does not dwell on the drama of the planning and execution of the escape, but on the character of the four men involved. None of these men are friends. In fact, it seems the hardship of life in New Archangel renders friendship a luxury few can afford. To survive one must be wholly self-interested. To succeed in the escape however, each of the four must trust one another. This simple trope elevates the story from being a wonderful adventure tale to a greater meditation on the nature of trust, friendship and risk.
Doig unobtrusively reveals the internal narratives of each character while maintaining a tone of spar silence. His writing sounds like the coast. Periods of beautiful and austere prose are punctuated by moments of decisive tragedy. The peace returns quickly without overwrought meditation on the tragedy.
I read this work after reading Winter Brothers Doig’s loving meditation on the writing of James Gilchrist Swan, a pioneer of the Washington coast. In Winter Brothers Doig reveals his kinship with those who came to the Pacific Northwest and became attached in some transcendent way to the pervasive damp and gray. I feel a similar sense of place and admiration and as a result am disposed to sort of romanticism of these stories. Knowing care and respect that Doig has for the stories of this region causes me to imbue them with a weightiness that someone less sentimental about the heroic struggles of the coastal people might not. In the hands of a more cynical reader, The Sea Runners is reduced a ripping good tale of adventure and brother hood.