I spent my first spring break in a hospital room, sitting at my grandfather’s bedside. Like the sponge I used to swab the sagging edges of my grandfather’s mouth, I soaked up every lucid moment assuring him The lessons he taught I’d carry forever and promised to make him proud.
As the chips of crushed ice melted on his tongue, Before the next drop of morphine doused the spread of fire in his bones, I saw him smile—not with the lips I moistened— but in his blue-grey eyes before they closed to rest.
I held his hand— the one that guided my first steps, helped me up, and held me close at his side. I squeezed tighter, as a donor offering hope, to transfer my strength to him while he slept, but felt no response.
Just a sterile room beeping, pumping, dripping, fading, Passing his legacy, lifetime of memories, leaving me questioning Why was he taken so soon?
As I applied a cool, wet rag to his forehead, he drifted into deeper sleep. I wondered if he dreamed of plowing fields or mowing grass or working with his hands. Perhaps he pictured childhood or games of catch or watching us play ball.
Maybe he remembered telling jokes or teasing Grandma about the meal she overcooked— No doubt, the turkey was dry as his sense of humor. So, with tongue in cheek, he praised the meat for soaking up the gravy on his plate. Then, grinning, gave thanks for cranberry sauce, but knowing the bite of her response, Tasted the tang of tart fruit in her reply: “Now Alec,” she’d snap, “mind yourself!”
But she was sweet as sun tea iced in a glass, Rocking chairs and evenings on the porch— The twinkle in his eye.
How many times had he made the drive home to Grandma? Tracing the bend in the road turning westward Route etched in his mind Racing the descending sun to the end of the country highway His thoughts drifting like dandelion seeds in the wind through open car windows.
Could he remember a time before his calloused hands—with delicate strength— Operated on heavy machinery, restoring life to an engine?
A selfless fixer, a listener, he still hears the rattle, growl, purr, click of trailer hitches, clanking chains and wrenches. The smell of diesel fuel, greased steel parts, shifting gears. Each new row marks time across the field, Harvest collected for another year, wheat piled high in the barn.
Wiping sweat from under his dust-covered cap With tired legs and heavy boot stomps the garage door to the ground. He hesitates, feels a warm breeze The world is silent Another workday ends.
Arriving at last to his modest house— the first he’s ever owned (a gift from his son)— Greeted by Grandma and a familiar scent of fried chicken on the stove, A steaming platter of corn on the cob, the table is set. “Best wash up,” she says. “Supper’s on.”
He runs the water and before it heats up Rubs the bar of soap between his hands Scrubs oil-stained fingers, Then with cupped palms Splashes water on his face.
Suds from the lather cling to the sides of the sink—remnants of an honest day’s work— As the last of the gray water waits patiently to be swallowed by the drain.
With one turn of the faucet
The drain takes its final breath
Free of pain.
In memory of my grandfather, Alex Durst Written by Brian Durst Summer of 2020
There’s a hundred and four days of summer vacation…
Every June brings the end of another school year. After conquering another milestone in their education, students are ready for time off. So are educators. Teachers have earned a break from school and certainly need time to recharge.
Inevitably, I am asked by non-educators, “What are you going to do with all of your free time?” Yes, I technically have summer off, but I’m never coasting on free time. I recharge by being as productive as possible. I make the most of the time I have available when I am not restricted by a set daily schedule.
This year, when asked about my plans for the summer, I didn’t have a specific response. For the first time in my professional career, I am not coaching high school varsity baseball over the summer and dealing with the many responsibilities included in leading an athletic program. This year, our season shifted from summer to spring to join the majority high schools in the United States. The transition created a new level of stress at the end of the school year (and this spring was miserable here in Wisconsin), but I remain passionate about teaching in the classroom and in the dugout.
…finding a good way to spend it
I know what I’m going to do today.
Now that I am a month into my vacation, I have answers. I have been busy. I spend more time enjoying adventures with my children, making new memories with family, playing, working out, writing, reading, completing projects around the house, participating in professional development, reflecting, learning, and planning. My time is well spent, productive, and fulfilling.
As in past summers, I use my time away from school to think about school, reflecting on what went well during the school year and what I plan to improve next year. I read as many education books as possible. I jot down ideas for future lessons. I collect resources for the classroom. Like so many educators, I am always invested in professional development and dedicated to my craft in and out of school. There is always more to learn—more to do. I am never bored.
Part of our family summer routine is my wife’s daily check-in to make sure all is well at home.
Today, I’ll let her know the dog is enjoying a bone, our son is completing an online driver’s ed lesson, and our daughter is making a card for her cousin. All is well…
And I’m writing about summer vacation, inspired by Phineas and Ferb—a family favorite. [Okay, my favorite. One of the unspoken perks of parenting is watching cartoons and considering it quality time with the children.]
From 2007 to 2015, my kids (and I) enjoyed the cartoon about two young stepbrothers using their imagination and ingenuity to make every day of summer vacation the best day ever. Meanwhile, their jealous teenage sister tries to bust them, but fails, as the evidence of their daily exploits inexplicably disappears before their mom sees any remnants of the day’s excitement. Every episode also features the adventures of their pet, Perry the Platypus, who doubles as a secret agent protecting the Tri-State Area from Dr. Doofenshmirtz’s evil schemes.
But as I reflect on the creative genius of Jeff Marsh and Dan Provenmire, the show’s writers, I ponder the negative undertones of the theme song’s second line:
…And school comes along just to end it…
Don’t get me wrong, I scowl at Target’s back-to-school section in late June. I cherish summertime and don’t want to rush these precious months, but I always look forward to starting a new school year. Why does the coming of school have to indicate the cruel end of our summer adventures?
What if we re-imagine school with the philosophy of Phineas and Ferb?
Approach every day with the intention of making it the best day ever.
How so? Like maybe…
Allow the imagination to guide our learning.
Although school may follow the same start time every day, appear to follow the same routine, the structure on the calendar, everyday can have a fresh script with new adventures waiting to be discovered.
Challenge kids to use imagination to create, invent, make something that does not currently exist. If we want kids to think like innovators, why not challenge them to fill a need with the next great -inator? Maybe it’s not something we make. Perhaps, our contribution is an original idea, a remix, a fresh perspective.
Invite kids to explore and celebrate creativity.
Children have more to offer if we allow them autonomy, space, and time to pursue big ideas.
I have to be open to accept the unplanned. Intentionally explore spaces off the script. Allow discoveries to guide the tour. Then, ask bigger questions that ignite curiosity and invite deeper exploration of an idea. Be spontaneous. Rather than fight concerns of pacing and content coverage, celebrate the learning happening right in front of me. Teach kids how to think, not what to think.
Never underestimate the intelligence of our learners.
Our students are natural problem solvers. However, they grow complacent in the learning process. They become dependent on adults to point out flaws and show them how to correct errors. Worse yet, students wait for adults to tell them what to do and how to do it.
By the time students reach high school, the most frustrating task is when teachers ask open-ended questions or expect students to show evidence of their learning.
What should I do? How should I do it? How long should it be? Do you have any examples? Just tell us the answers.
When given the opportunity to create original outcomes, learners construct meaning in ways adults would never imagine. Phineas and Ferb creator Jeff “Swampy” Marsh insists, “you can never go wrong overestimating the intelligence of kids.”
Recognize the impact of introverts.
While Phineas is an outgoing genius, a social creature, and a natural leader, Ferb’s contribution to each day’s plan is often understated, but crucial to success. Ferb doesn’t crave attention; in fact, at times he may appear distant. He is a listener. A dreamer. He may not get recognized as a leader, but his perceptive mind is always engaged. If we are patient and respect Ferb’s need for quiet space, he will share his brilliance in the most opportune moments.
We all have these students. I need to find the Ferbs in the classroom and work with them to determine effective strategies for communicating their learning. Give them opportunities to celebrate their voice.
Accept failure as a meaningful part of life—an opportunity to grow—if we learn from it.
Poor Candace. She tries so hard. Candace keeps fighting for the truth. What some may perceive as tattling and an obsessive desire to bust her brothers, Candace simply wants her parents’ respect. To believe her for once. Just when she thinks she’s won, the plot twists. Likewise, Doofenshmirtz is doomed to similar outcomes. He concocts a new scheme to destroy the Tri-State Area in every episode, only to be foiled by a secret agent…platypus.
Why continue to get agitated over the same frustrations every year? Where did the system fail to teach students to use the apostrophe? Rather than complain about it, I should look deeper into the issue and ask others (students and colleagues) for help to find solutions.
If we are relentless in our pursuit, we can redefine success.
Unfortunately, Baljeet represents the stereotypical attitude that failing a math test is the “scariest thing known to man.” He craves knowledge and loves to learn. However, grades overshadow the joy of learning. That’s why the laid-back approach of Phineas and Ferb is a positive influence on him. They satisfy his intellectual curiosity and the outcome liberates him from the pressure of a grade. Success is redefined.
There’s always more to the story.
Where’s Perry? Certainly, we would not expect a platypus to be a secret agent protecting the Tri-State Area from evil. We are often oblivious to hidden truths; and we make assumptions. The student who cannot sit still may actually have squirrels in her pants. Having too many adult responsibilities is not an excuse. We can pay closer attention. And listen when kids try to communicate with us. The same holds true for how we interact with colleagues.
If we look beneath the surface, we will find there is more to discover.
While we’re at it, let’s recognize the harmful impact of labels. There’s good in everyone. Ferb is not simply a quiet kid with nothing to say. Perry is not just a pet. Even “evil” Dr. Doofenshmirtz is a loving father. Buford, the bully, is a rounder character than his stereotype indicates. He shows depth, compassion, and vulnerability beneath his hard exterior, especially when he feels respected by the other kids and has a sense of purpose.
Phineas’ appearance doesn’t stand out, yet he is respected by everyone. Although the bullies of the world are physically stronger, Phineas’ positive attitude makes others want to be around him. He accepts everyone for who they are and invites everyone along on the adventure. He celebrates everyone’s strengths, acknowledging how they can contribute to the adventure.
Be cool, consistent, resilient and composed.
Phineas is also the coolest kid in the neighborhood. When he inevitably encounters an obstacle in his plans, he never panics. He is consistently cool and composed. He is unfazed by stress.
If educators block out the negative forces, voices of jealousy, and downer attitudes; if we remain composed when challenged, confident in our purpose, calm when faced with the unexpected; if we don’t take ourselves too seriously; if we remember to make time for fun… we will withstand the adversity and stress of the school year.
Make no excuses.
Phineas and Ferb refuse to accept defeat. They do not let age, conditions, lack of resources, negativity, or other external forces interfere with their plans for happiness. When a concerned adult asks, “Aren’t you a little young to (fill in the concern of the day)…?” Phineas replies with an honest, “Yes. Yes, I am.” But that doesn’t stop him. After slight consideration, the adult respects the youngster’s plan and the plot advances.
Teaching humbles the most seasoned educator. Even as the adult in the classroom, I do not have all the answers. And I don’t have to. We will find solutions together.
Find fulfillment in the joy we create for those around us.
Educators are special agents on a mission. We continue to fight for social justice, create fair and welcoming environments for all, and ultimately, see good prevail over evil.
Continue to be selfless—an inherent quality of an educator—but not self-sacrificing. Join in the fun. Take pride in bringing joy to others, but don’t forget to include ourselves in the experience. Immerse ourselves in moments. Be present. Keep showing up everyday.
As you can see, there’s a whole lot of stuff to do Before school starts this fall…
“Would I want my own child to be a student in my classroom?”
As educators reflect on our practice and commit to improve our craft, no question makes professional development more personal. What we deem acceptable for ourselves and our learners takes on a new meaning with our child’s best interest at stake. Without question, compassion, empathy, and respect become priorities in the classroom.
As a parent, I begin to consider the diverse needs and interests of my two children. A sudden panic hits as my thoughts shift to my impact as a teacher. What kind of experience do I provide in my classroom? How do I make each child feel important while challenging them at their appropriate level? Do I treat everyone fairly? Communicate clearly? Will I inspire or stifle their learning? Do I provide clear feedback and prepare students for the next level? Will they resent the workload or fear my assessment practices? What would my child’s peers say about me?
There is no faking it. My child will know exactly what I do and who I am as a professional. He will know if I am an effective educator. I want to watch him learn, support his productive struggles, witness his growth, share the experience. Will my son still look at me with wonder and awe, pride and respect?
Such a scenario is laden with pressure. There is obvious pressure on the teacher-parent, but potentially more pressure on the student. The expectations of a teacher’s child are already high. Every action and interaction is judged. Any success may indicate preference or favoritism. Peers (and their parents) will talk. “Of course you know the answers. You can get away with anything. You can always get extra help. You better get an A.” In the eyes of onlookers, nothing the child does is going to prove worthy of praise. No personal accomplishment will be recognized as hard-earned or well-deserved.
It’s complicated. But it became my reality in the 2018-19 school year when my son sat in the passenger seat on our commute to school, entered the building by my side, and dropped his backpack at a table in my first hour English class. From the first period of the first day of school, our relationship would be forever impacted.
A year of car rides, shared experiences around school, conversations at home, and increased time spent together strengthened our father-son bond (I just checked to make sure…he confirmed my claim). Although I was technically the teacher, I learned more from my son than I could ever deliver to him as a student in my class. Fifteen years ago, when I became a parent, I became a better teacher. But I can honestly say nothing made as great an impact as teaching my own child.
I was accountable. I had to be intentional in my preparation, words, and actions, and as a result, more reflective than ever before.
Here are 10 lessons, reminders, and takeaways from the school year…
1. Start class on a positive, personal note.
Nothing in the content of the course is as important as the relationships created in a welcoming environment. What we teach is significant. What we model is paramount. Beginning each class with informal conversations and personal check-ins may not score points on an administrative evaluation, but they earn lasting respect from those that matter most–our students.
This is why Joe Sanfelippo stresses the importance of being intentional in creating a culture of trust every 30 seconds. We cannot force students to want to attend class or love our curriculum; but we can provide a safe, inviting space where everyone has a voice and an opportunity to find success. I hope all of my students, including my son, know they matter.
2. Pay attention.
In order to reinforce Angela Maiers’ YOU MATTER Manifesto, I had to remind myself to be more aware. More empathetic. More real. I made a genuine effort to pay attention to what every student was involved in after school, note when their mood changed, recognize when they looked tired, understand when my class lesson was not a priority in their stressful day. As a result, I respectfully knew when to push and when to back off.
3. Be intentional with every decision.
On the ride to school, I expected my son to ask, “What’s the plan for today?” I had to be prepared with an answer and a rationale. Purposeful planning became a priority, as it should be, but having to verbalize what and why forced me to be aware of my delivery. My son provided immediate feedback. He helped me consider alternative options and let me know if the activity would be well received or bound to fail. These simple conversations also helped me rehearse before sharing with a room of freshmen. Consequently, I provided better directions and set clearer expectations than in the past.
4. Don’t be boring. Bring it everyday.
I dreaded the very real possibility of my son having to hear some form of honest criticism from his peers. “Your dad’s class sucks…” While it’s hard to please everyone–and reality says my class is certainly not everyone’s favorite–I needed to bring it everyday. “It” refers to energy, enthusiasm, a sense of humor, a smile, spontaneity, and fun.
My students and I set the vibe together, refusing to simply go through the motions of school. I gave students permission to challenge the relevance of any lesson. They held me accountable for being up front with the purpose of what I invited them to learn. Likewise, I insisted they attack every challenge by making a personal connection to the concept and add their unique voice to everything they produced.
5. Make the experience meaningful.
In order to provide a meaningful experience, I had to determine what was worthwhile for our limited time together. What are the essential elements of what I teach? How do the units fit together within the school year? What needs to be assigned and how can we go into greater depth in our learning? Although it hurts to eliminate old favorites, some activities are simply time-fillers. More than anything, what do I want to guarantee my son knows before he moves on to the next level of his education? Certainly, I don’t want him to have any gaps in his learning, considering I had the opportunity to fill in the blanks.
With the intent of making sense of a full year of curricular units in English 9, students began telling their learning story on day one. Their plain crashed on Lit Island, the first world of Durstopia. There was no going back. Did they have what it takes to survive? Could they conquer the series of missions and challenges to navigate their way through each world? Of course, they could. And did. Yes, Durstopia is gamified, but it is not a game. There is meaning behind every learning decision, woven together in one cohesive story line rather than unrelated topics from one isolated unit to the next.
6. Make it memorable.
If I claim to be a collector of memories in the classroom, I need create opportunities for the memorable to happen. Provide time for Ruby to share her “joke of the day” before starting class. Take a hike around campus on the first day back from spring break before diving into the new unit. Insist that Sydney perform the song she was anxiously rehearsing for her after school choir audition. Stop everything for a day of play (GSPD). Or, better yet, play the game Kolton created during the Global Day of Design challenge. Pass the fake microphone to someone other than me, so I’m not the only one talking.
7. Capture the experiences.
8. Be respectful of time.
When I paid closer attention to the school calendar, I knew when groups of students would be busiest. Although I joke about teachers intentionally planning times where students have to suffer with multiple tests or major projects due on the same day, by knowing what was going on in other classes, I was more flexible with due dates and pacing.
If I didn’t want my kid to stay up all night completing an assignment for my class, I didn’t assign it. If we could not take care of the work in one class period, we always had the next day. So, there’s no homework, just coursework. The message communicated from one year of students to the next is clear. If students take care of business in class and respect time dedicated to study, they should not have to drag extra work into their personal time after school.
My son, whose backpack was full of work every night, appreciated not having to worry about tedious English assignments. Periodically, he chose to read further in a novel or review a presentation, but rarely considered the work a burden. Justifying the excessive workload to my wife would have certainly created dystopian conditions in our household.
9. Be fair.
How do I look around the room and not play favorites (could be my own kid or the model student who shows genuine interest in every lesson and laughs at all of my jokes)? By getting to know students as individuals and as learners, I could better challenge, support, and guide their experience. According to the feedback I received, the pacing of the course felt comfortable; students rarely felt overwhelmed or rushed. Learners acknowledged expectations were high, but work was not burdensome as it feels in some classes.
Activities were hands-on and creative; learning was “unforced,” “natural,” and “relevant to our lives.” They appreciated having options for designing outcomes and having choices of how to show their learning.
I also had to deliver unbiased assessment. Fair assessment means increasing transparency. Expectations need to be clear. I learned to provide specific directions with concrete steps for the more sequential learners. I frequently checked to ensure the assessment matched the target. I modeled examples and made sure all students understood success criteria before submitting work. I increased my use of anonymous feedback on formative assessment for all to see. Ultimately, I became a better teacher.
10. Find balance.
The healthy reminder. It is fun to relive events of the school day, but there are new adventures waiting at home. I need to balance work and play. Professional and personal. Attention to other children and my own. Time spent planning and time spent reflecting. Giving time to others and taking time for myself. Working and resting. Talking and listening. Teaching and learning. Understanding at the end of the day, I am enough.
Yes, I would want my own child to be a student in my classroom. In fact, I cannot think of anything more gratifying in my teaching career. Both of us proved to have what it takes to survive in Durstopia. My son may have escaped from the final world in Durstopia, but his name will forever be embedded in its title. He not only left a legacy in my first hour class, he has pushed me to be more intentional in teaching all students.
And I’m not done being held accountable for improving my craft. I have two more years to get better before my seventh grade daughter puts my teaching to the test. She’s on her way. And she expects my best.
I would love to hear from other teacher-parents. How does being a parent impact your teaching? If you already taught your child, what did you learn from the experience?
While exploring the pattern of the hero’s journey in literature, my juniors partake in their own learning journey through literacy and life. To experience the structure of Joseph Campbell’s monomyth, I organize my World Literature and Composition course according to four major stages of the hero’s journey.
Separation from the Ordinary World
Initiation: The Trials and Challenges of Heroism
Transformation: An Inward Journey
After they accept the call to adventure, juniors cross the threshold into an unknown world of trials and challenges during quarter two. As we study the adventures of heroes through selected epics, I am responsible for guiding student progress and training for greater tests of skill.
My young heroes have to build strength, endurance, and stamina to perform admirably. They need to become critical thinkers, careful readers, and confident writers. But without the assistance of divine intervention or supernatural aid, I simply want to give my students the advantage of understanding their human flaws and feeling secure in their abilities. A seemingly daunting ACT/SAT exam is nothing more than a one-day opportunity to allow for easier passage to the next stage of their journey (and can be retaken). It is not a predictor of future success or self-worth.
This year, learners are attacking their training and preparation for battle. So what’s making the difference? My courageous juniors are not only exercising their minds; they are expressing their voices. Continue reading →
Recently, I asked my freshmen to respond to several prompts intended to assess their understanding of various literary concepts at the end of a unit. There was nothing more to study—nothing left to prepare for in advance. Simply, show what you know. Although I was doing committee work across the hall, expectations for the sub and students were clear: complete your responses by the end of the class period and place your papers in the basket. Students were welcome to interrupt my meeting and ask a question. Splendid.
When I had a break, I checked the basket to see what my students produced. The basket was full…of incomplete work.
In response, I experienced all stages of the teacher frustration cycle.
Shock: What the…?
Worry: What happened to my wonderful students? Where did I go wrong? Haven’t I taught anything during the last month? Have I failed to prepare my learners?
Examination: How did some meet the requirements but many not even come close?
Anger: How dare they not complete several simple responses?
Resentment: Seriously? Only a couple kids stopped in during intervention time or after school to complete the test. Do they expect to be gifted more class time tomorrow after seeing all the questions? What an entitled generation.
[Spite: Time to teach them a lesson! Make it hurt!]*
*At this point, I remembered one vital detail. We have established a healthy learning environment built on trust. Spite teaching will destroy weeks of progress. Learning is not limited by increments of time; nor is it measured by compliant behaviors. I decided to look closer at the underlying issue and replace the 6th stage—spite—with three different stages to produce more positive outcomes.
Introspection: Time to reflect. What’s really going on here? How can I turn a potentially negative consequence into a positive learning experience? My assessment prompts are strong and still valid. Even if students go home and prepare responses, what’s the worst that can happen? Everyone produces a quality argument and I have more to read? Everyone learns?
Next steps: Now what? Brainstorm all possible solutions, regardless of how outrageous they may seem. How can I create an unforgettable experience?
Growth: How can we turn our failures into an opportunity to learn? Got it!
The next morning, students sheepishly entered the classroom. Word had (somehow) spread that I was not pleased. There was a blank sheet of paper at everyone’s seat. They looked around and asked, “What are we doing today? Will we have time to finish the test? Am I really going to fail?”
My only response: Better start stretching. Today is not going to be a typical class period…Continue reading →