The Festival of Reassessment (SBG)

December is when I am truly grateful for strong routines. They mean I can split the class up and still count on everything moving forward. I am running behind in my pacing, so I needed to set up a mass SBG reassessment opportunity for slope skills yesterday. I set up all the reassessors along the window side of the classroom and all of the non-reassessors on the hallway side of the room. The non-reassessors worked on linear systems skills and problem-based learning while the reassessors worked on demonstrating mastery of slope skills.

Whenever a reassessing student finished their work, they brought it up to be rechecked. I went through it right then and there while they watched. “Uh huh... uh huh... uh huh...” until “Oh noooooo! Why is this negative?!?!? It ruins everything! Go back and fix it!!!” And then the next student moved forward in the queue.

We went through this process of working and my checking and sending kids back for about 40 minutes. “Nooooo!!!” I would circle something and pretend to freak out, sending them back to fix stuff. It became a carnival. “AAACK!" I would say. "Go back and fix this!” Seeing this happen in real-time changed kids’ relationships with their misconceptions. It reminded me of piano practice as a child. Something would splatter in the midst of a phrase or figure and I would have to go back to the beginning, willing the figure to come out right through my fingers on the keyboard.

We kept going until all 12 students had triumphed over slope and point-slope form. What I loved about this process was how it transformed the social focus of the process of understanding to us (the whole class) against the skills. Kids were going wild and cheering when somebody finally triumphed over the "slope and point-slope” process, jumping up and down and hugging their newly non-reassessing classmates and friends.

The goal became one of getting everybody in the classroom over the finish line. From individual mastery to collective. Students stopped focusing on who had status in the classroom and who did not. They stopped thinking about their place in the social hierarchy and instead lost themselves in the flow of doing this f***ing slope and linear equation problem.

And then as each new classmate finally triumphed over the skill, the whole class felt truly victorious.

Everybody got the individualized attention they needed as they drove their skills forward, and we also bonded as a collective community, advancing our work as a group.

In these divisive times, I think this might be an important process to cultivate.

First thoughts on completing Exeter Math 1

I just finished doing the 2010 edition of Math 1 (91pages) today.  Now begins the synthesizing and summarizing, which I will put into blog posts.

Math 1 is an Algebra 1 course that includes an incredibly deep coverage of proportional reasoning, in addition to the usual linear, quadratic, and exponential function topics.

I did Math 1 because most of our incoming students are incredibly bright and hard-working but they were not the math monsters in their middle schools. They have many of the typical middle school gaps, but they are much more sophisticated than most 9th grade Algebra 1 students. So the fact that Math 1 is a REALLY TOUGH course that dives very deep into Algebra 1 material is a great thing because it will give my students the deep rich course they deserve, even though they are placed into Algebra 1 based on their current skill level.

My Algebra 1 learners find themselves stuck in a ZPD no-man's-land: their ZPD as math learners is nowhere near their ZPD as readers. 

This presents a huge problem in the classroom. The math in CPM Algebra 1, for example, is rich and interesting, but the text is written for reluctant readers, discouraged readers, and English Language Learners, which is a huge turn-off for the vast majority of my enthusiastic and highly capable readers.

They feel insulted by it, and they are not shy about expressing these feelings. So my student population tends to dismiss it and resist it, even if they really do need to learn the content. This raises the question of how best to serve a population of learners who need to be challenged with greater nuance in textual interpretation and presentation in an introductory high school math class.

For all of these reasons, Math 1 is going to form a terrific problem-based “spine” for my Algebra 1 classes. The problem sequences are rich and interesting and engaging with sophisticated contexts, though they start from first principles. They develop to a point where even a mathematically sophisticated adult will find them very challenging.

To get started, I printed all pages of the problem sets, answer keys, and commentaries and created a binder with the following sections:

1 - Problem Sets plus glossary at the end

2 - Commentaries

3 - My Worked Solutions (for each page of problems, I have one stapled cluster of my worked solution pages)

4 - Answer Keys

I did all of my work on three-hole binder paper, with each new page from the problem set being its own stapled packet (or "blob") in the Worked Solutions section. 

Whatever problem set I was working on I would take out of the binder along with the relevant answer key page. That way I could work on binder paper without having to carry the whole damn binder around all the time. Much of this work was done on a lap desk with my iPhone/Desmos for graphing, my TI-83-plus (sorry, Eli) for computation, and my monkey pencil case including my mechanical pencil, my ProRadian protractor, and my colored pencils.

A lot of people have asked me why I started at the end and worked from the end forwards, about 10 pages at a time. The answer has two parts: (1) whenever I started from the beginning, I bogged down or got sidetracked; and (2)  it enabled me to see where we were going and where students would end up. By seeing where they would land at the end of the course, I could better understand how things worked from the beginning.

More thoughts coming soon, but I wanted to capture these ideas right away. If you have specific questions you'd like to discuss, please put them into the comments section below.

Betweenness and non-betweenness: absolute value inequalities and Patrick Callahan

I felt a little nervous about having Patrick Callahan come to observe my classroom yesterday, but in the end, it was fun. I had asked one of our security guards, to bring him down to my room when he arrived at our school. He walked in as he always does, all mathematical open-mindedness and pedagogical curiosity.

And we got started.

I felt anxious about having him observe my conceptual lessons about betweenness and non-betweenness. I have never seen anything even close to how I understand and talk about absolute value and inequalities. I talk about boundary points and betweenness and I have students hold up their fists and point their thumbs to show me their understanding. “Is this a situation of betweenness — or NON-betweenness?” I demonstrate with my own fists, swinging my thumbs inward or outward. “Your fists are the boundary points and your thumbs are how you shade your graph on the number line. So is this a situation of betweenness... or NON-betweenness?”

If it is a situation of "betweenness," then students point their thumbs inward towards each other, touching the tips together. If it is NON-betweenness, then they point their thumbs outward in either direction, like a group of indecisive hitchhikers. And once we have done this analysis, then we can do whatever calculations we may need to find our boundary points.

So much of advanced algebra and precalculus depends on having this kind of deep conceptual understanding and thinking. Am I looking for quantities that are GREATER than...? or LESS than? Is this quantity going to be positive? or negative?

For me, the whole thing is intimately hooked together with the real number line. And with number sense. 

When we started last week, we began with an inquiry into “more than” and “less than” and widened our thinking outward from there.We connected more than and less than to number line thinking. I always emphasize Number-Line-Order and Number-Line-Thinking in my Algebra 1 classes. If they think about the number line, then they can anchor their thoughts in their bodies. LHS (or Left-Hand Side) and RHS (Right-Hand-Side) are fundamental ways of thinking in algebra. These ideas are eternal and unchanging. The number line is the foundation of everything. It gives you the “true north” of the real number system.

So we always ground our thinking in our bodies. I ask, “Left Hand Side or Right Hand Side?” “Is this a situation of betweenness or non-betweenness?” “OK, now that we know that, now what?”

I also anchor this unit in what they know about logical reasoning. They have an intuitive sense of how many possible cases a situation may present. I've been a huge Yogi Berra philosophy fan all my life, so I believe that when you come to a fork in the road, you should take it. When you come to a fork in the road, you can go left or you can go right. Or you can stay right where you are. Three possible cases. Over and over I ask them, “What’s going on here? How do you know?”

Absolute value inequalities are either situations of betweenness or situations of non-betweenness. Figure that out and then everything else will run smoothly. Then all you have to do is to use what you already know.

Once students have gotten that figured out, it’s just one more small step to combining their new knowledge with their existing knowledge. Follow the order of operations and common sense. Plus everything you know about the real number line and multiple representations. Then things can naturally unfold the right way.

But I always come back to number sense to what we know about the real number line. Numbers are the ground, the foundation.

So when Patrick walked in yesterday — this world-class mathematician and math education expert — what he encountered was my bootcamp in algebraic thinking. “Hold up your fists! Is this a situtation of betweenness or non-betweenness?”  "How do you know?" And then my waiting until everybody’s thumbs are pointing in the same direction.

It is Logic 101 and numbers and anchoring our thoughts about numbers in our bodies. Like the ancient Greeks and Babylonians and Egyptians before us.

Our next step is to solidify our thinking through what How People Learn calls “deliberate practice with metacognitive awareness.” We are going to do two days of Speed Dating. Now I have to make up Speed Dating cards and a test to use on Thursday. 

And then to document my thinking.

When the class ended, Patrick came up to my tech podium and was excited. He grabbled a whiteboard marker and started sketching and pouring out ideas.

For me, that was the best possible review I could have gotten on this lesson. A five-unicorn review. A direct hit. :)

The concept of betweenness

I am coming to believe that, much like the concept of substitution, developing a deep understanding of the idea of betweenness is a huge part of the psychological and conceptual work of Algebra 1.

I have been dissatisfied for years now with the fact that we tell students about the geometric interpretation of absolute value, but we don't really get them to live it. And yet that idea of the "distance from zero" on the real number line is not something we give students time to really marinate in.

And you know what? That feels dumb to me.

So this week and part of the next, my students and I are really wallowing in that idea.

I've taken a page from my studies as a young piano student. In the study of the piano, there are certain studies of technique that really force you to slow down and take apart the finger movements. There are specific figures that you have to practice over and over and over so that they become part of your finger memory. How they feel in your fingers is how you come to relate to them.

This is not just about developing automaticity, although that is a side benefit. This is about learning to feel these foundational figures in your bones. In your body. They become so fundamental that as you learn and grow as a musician, you come to feel them when you see them coming up in a new score you are studying.

The technique does not replace musicianship. The technique supports the musicianship.

I've been noticing lately how my own experience of absolute value is about noticing boundary points at the periphery of my mathematical perception. I see them out of the corner of my mathematical mind's eye. And how an inequality is said to relate to them defines how I relate to those boundary points.

So I am taking the risk of sharing this mathematical experience with my students.

As with young piano students, we take this slowly. One figure at a time. Right now we are only dealing with the case of an absolute value being less than a nonnegative quantity. We are dealing with situations of betweenness, where an inequality presents us with a figural situation that is going to wind up with a quantity being between two boundary points.

That is all. And that is enough.

I see the effort in their faces and in their fingers as they rewrite, revise, calculate, solve, and sketch graphs. I see them noticing and wondering whether they need to use a closed dot or and open dot.

And I hear them developing the confidence that comes from experience in developing a relationship with these quantities.

They are not following rules. They are listening to their own deeper wisdom. Everybody knows something about the situation of being "between" other things. Betweenness is one of the most elemental human ideas.

They are making friends with mathematics.

Burning Questions

The great psychologist and inner development teacher A.H. Almaas is one of my favorite authors of talks that make me think hard and clearly about what I do as a teacher and why I am doing it.

Because our semester just ended and I will have all-new classes in the new semester, I have been reflecting on how I'm dealing with homework. This is the first time I've ever felt good about my homework strategy — not only because it is working but also because it is aligned with something fundamental that Almaas writes about in his talk on "The Value of Struggling," in his book Diamond Heart Book One: Elements of the Real in Man:

  When you have an issue in your life, the point is not to get rid of it; the point is to grow with it. The point is not just to resolve the issue; the point is to grow through resolving it. So in many ways, you can see that maturity has to do with this growth, this broadening, this depth. (p. 128)

In my classes, this is the point of having homework and of doing homework; so the same should be true with the way in which we deal with points of struggle.

For this reason, the most important part about homework and homework review in my classes has become what I call burning questions. As Almaas says,

   In terms of working here, the question you bring to your teacher has to be a burning question. If you have a feeling one day and don't understand it, don't run to your teacher saying, "I was walking down the street, and this person said such-and-such to me and I felt scared. Why was I feeling scared?"  That is not a burning question. (pp. 127-8)

So for the first four minutes of class, while the intro theme music is playing and while the countdown timer counts down on the screen, students' job is to compare answers and methods in their table groups and to explain to each other anything they can to work through their routine questions and problems with the homework.

Their other goal is to identify any burning questions that they can not answer for themselves or each other. I tell them explicitly and repeatedly for the first two weeks of class that I will only take burning questions — in other words, "group questions" that they can confirm that they cannot answer for themselves.

This, I believe, is the most important classroom cultural thing I establish about homework review. In my classroom, homework review is not the place where you should collapse like a helpless baby and expect me to take your problems away. Homework review and questions to the teacher should be the place to bring your burning questions, which can help you to struggle better and to get that last little boost you need to work your way up to the next level of understanding:

   Respect your issues, grapple with them, struggle with them.  When an issue comes up, involve yourself in it, observe, pay attention, be present, understand it as best you can, using all the capacities you've got. Then, if the issue is hard for you to understand and you can't get through it and the fire is burning inside you, come and ask the question. It is that question which is the best question to ask a teacher. It is the right use of the teacher. When you ask that question, deal with it, and come to understand it, you will undergo a transformation that is not possible otherwise. Then you can take the realization and digest it, absorb it. But if you tell me to give you the enzyme and you haven't digested anything on your own, how are you going to absorb it? It's like trying to absorb big lumps that haven't been thoroughly chewed. No matter how much enzyme we put in, you'll probably only get a stomach ache.  (p. 129)

After the first two weeks of hammering this procedure and prioritization home, I have found that students really take more ownership of their own learning. They seem to better understand how I expect them to mature as learners in my classroom. And they come to appreciate — and ask — really deep and meaningful questions.

Chords and Secants and Tangents, oh my!

Once you get to circles, chords, tangents, secants, arcs, and angles in Geometry, it's all just a nightmare of things to memorize — which means things to forget or confuse.

Rather than have students memorize this mishmash of formulas, I decided to have them focus on recognizing situations and relationships. And a good way to do that is with a four-door foldable.

Make it and use it.

Humans are tool-using animals. So let's do this thing!

Doors #1, 2, 3, and 4 each have only a diagram on their front door with color-coding because, as my brilliant colleague Alex Wilson always says, "Color tells the story."

Inside the door, we wrote as little as we possibly could. At the top we wrote our own description of the situation depicted on the door of the foldable. What's the situation? Intersecting chords. What is significant? Angle measures and arc lengths. What's the relationship? Color-code the formula.

Move on to Door #2.

We did the same thing with the chord, secant, and tangent segment theorems.

These two foldables are the only tools students can use (plus a calculator) for all of the investigations we have done with this section. They are learning to use it like a field guide — a field guide to angles and arcs, chords, secants, tangents. I hear conversation snippets like, "No, that can't be right because this is an intersecting secant and tangent situation."

My favorite is the "two tangents from an external point" set-up, which we have dubbed the "party hat situation" in which n = m (all tangents from an external point being congruent).

A big part of the success of this activity seems to come from teaching students how to make tools and to advocate for their own learning. Help them make their tools, set them loose, and get out of their way.

That's a pretty good strategy for teaching anything, I think.

Compound Inequalities Treasure Map

Never underestimate the power of novelty to help you engage certain students.

I just spent the last hour and a half-long block period with my jaw on the floor, watching in amazement as my most discouraged, 12th grade College Prep Math students worked productively and peacefully on, of all things, the analysis and solving of compound inequalities.

During my prep, I turned a boring worksheet into a treasure map. And that turned a boring requirement into a very peaceful and enjoyable period.

As she was leaving, one girl asked, Could we please do more work like this?

I'll take that as a compliment!

Writing Kids Notes

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

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

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

Dear ___ — 

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

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

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

Dear ___

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Teaching Mathalicious' "Harmony of Numbers" lesson on ratios, part 1 (grade 6, CCSSM 6.RP anchor lesson)

I started teaching Mathalicious' Harmony of Numbers lesson in my 6th grade classes today, and I wanted to capture some of my thoughts before I pass out for the night.

The Good — Engagement & Inclusion
First of all, let's talk engagement. This made a fabulous anchor lesson for introducing ratios. The lesson opens with a highly unusual video of a musical number that every middle school student in America knows — One Direction's "What Makes You Beautiful."

You'll just have to watch the video for yourself to see how the surprise of this song gets revealed.

What I wish I could capture — but I can only describe — was the excitement in the room as my 6th graders realized what song was being played. It took about eight measures for the realization to kick in. Imagine a room full of South Park characters all clapping their hands to their cheeks and turning around with delight to see whether or not I really understood the religious experience I was sharing with them.

Every kid in the room was mesmerized. Even my most challenging, least engaged, most bored "I hate math" kids were riveted to the idea that music might be connected to math. It passed the Dan Pink Drive test because suddenly even the reluctant learners were choosing to be curious about something in math class. My assessment: A+

We started with a deliberately inclusive activity to kick things off — one whole-class round of Noticing and Wondering (h/t to the Math Forum). Sorry for the blurry photography of my white board notes. They noticed all kinds of really interesting things and everybody participated:

From noticing and wondering, we began to circle in on length of piano strings and pitch of notes. This was a very natural and easy transition, perhaps since so many of the students (and I) are also musicians of different sorts. Five guys, one piano, dozens of different sounds, what's not to like?

The Not Actually 'Bad,' But Somehow Slightly Less Good
One thing I noticed right away was that, while the scale of the drawings on the worksheet worked out very neatly, it was kinda small for 6th graders to work with. The range of fine motor skills in any classroom of 6th graders is incredibly wide. At one end of the spectrum, you have students who can draw the most elaborate dragons or mermaids, complete with highly refined textures and details of the scales on either creature. At the other end of the spectrum, you have the students I've come to think of as the "mashers," "stompers," and "pluckers." These are the kids who haven't yet connected with the fine motor skills and tend to mash, crush, or stomp on things accidentally. Some will pluck out the erasers from the pencils in frustration ("Damn you, pointy pencil tip!!!").

This made me want to rethink the tools and scales of the modeling. It might be good to have an actual manipulative with bigger units (still to scale). Cutting things out is a good way for students this age to experience the idea of units and compatible units. Simply measuring and mentally parceling out segments is a little tough for this age group. Ironically, within a year or so, this difficulty seems to disappear. I'm sure there are a lot of great suggestions for ways to make this process of connecting the measurements to the ratios through a more physically accessible manipulative or model. But then again, I'm just one teacher, so what do I really know? My assessment: B

The Not Ugly, But Still Challenging Truth
The most difficult thing about this lesson is that 6th graders go S L O W L Y. Really slowly. My students' fastest pace was still about three times longer than the initial plan.

I am fortunate that this pacing is OK for me and my students. They need to wallow in this stuff, so I will simply take more time to let them marinate. We'll try to invent some new manipulatives for this, and I'll blog about them in a follow-up.

But the reality is that this lesson is going to take us three full periods to get through. They will be three awesome, deeply engaging learning episodes filled with deep connections as well as begging to have me play the video again (Seriously? Three times is not enough for you people???).

Even though this is a much bigger time requirement, I still give this aspect of the lesson an A+. Getting reluctant learners to be curious about something they're very well defended against is a big victory.

I'm excited to see what happens tomorrow! Thanks, Mathalicious!

"Wow, what a great question!" or Repeat After Me: A Unit Test is Still a Learning Opportunity"

I have met teachers who refuse to answer questions of any kind at all during tests, and I admit that this puzzles me because from where I sit, those are some of the highest-leverage teaching and learning opportunities I will ever have.

I just hate to waste them.

For they are the moments when I have my students' complete and undivided attention.

And that means they are my best hope for encouraging and guiding students in the process of productive struggle.

During a test, I will happily entertain anybody's question about anything. Really. Ask me anything. I will gladly offer encouragement and encourage their courage because for many students, THAT is the moment at which they are most deeply engaged and present in the process of struggling with their learning.

But I am apparently the most frustrating person in the world because the best answer I will ever give students is to say, "THAT is a GREAT QUESTION!"

I smile and nod and encourage them and urge them to keep going. And at first, they really think they hate me for it.

During today's Math 8 test, kids kept asking questions and I kept answering, "That is a GREAT question! What a terrific insight!" and leaving to move on to the next questioner. "But is this RIGHT?" They would ask, sounding wounded. And I would say, "You are asking a FANTASTIC question! Keep going!" and move right along.

Finally somebody thought to ask me in a tiny and supplicating voice, "Dr. S, is THIS a good question to ask?" And I peered over and looked at their paper and exclaimed, "Yes! That is a super-fantastic question!"

I was certainly the most annoying person in the room, but they are starting to catch on to this whole productive struggle business. Eventually it became a humorous trope. "Oh, yeah — don't bother asking. I'm sure that's a really GREAT question."

To which I would chime in, "Yes — it really IS a super-great question!"

Don't get me wrong — this is NOT an easy thing to do. It takes strength and practice and intestinal fortitude. It will never be featured as "great classroom action." But it is the most precious and valuable thing I know how to offer my students.

I can say this because I have also been on the receiving end of this kind of teaching. It is a teaching about the value of struggle. It is an incredibly precious gift, but nobody can ever explain it to you. You actually have to experience it in order to understand what a profound act of respect it is for the primacy and centrality of your own personal experience to your own personal learning.

I spent plenty of years complaining bitterly about meditation teachers who practiced this kind of bounded containment. But I sat with it. I stayed with it. I learned first to accept it, and then to embrace it. After a lot of struggle, it humbled me. It changed me in ways big and small. It opened my heart and empowered me to discover the value of struggling within my own life's journey, as well as in subjects like mathematics. That kind of preciousness and wholeheartedness is all too rare in America, but I hope that all human beings will at least taste it at some point in their lives.

So even though it was in some ways a crappy day and a frustrating day and an exasperating day, it was also a kind of gift day too. I want to remember that.

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

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

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

I used to think they lacked rigor and intellectual heft.

But I was wrong.

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

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

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

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

Allegory, iambic pentameter, and 8th graders

In 8th grade English we have just started our poetry unit, which is probably my favorite literature unit, and today was probably my favorite lesson of my favorite literature unit.

I had to start by finishing up what I think of as the "poetry bootcamp" section. There are all the basic terms, the mandatory vocabulary, bleep, blorp, bleep, blorp, and a yada yada yada. BO-RING. That is no way to engage 8th graders.

So I took my opening when I got to allegory, which, as I explained to them, is what we call an "extended metaphor," or as I like to think of it, a "story-length metaphor."

Like the fable of The Ugly Duckling.

I am a believer in the power of storytelling and poetry to save lives. They've saved my life many, many times over, and I know many others who've been saved by them as well.

I told them a version of Clarissa Pinkola Estès' version of The Ugly Duckling. I wove the story from the perspective of the bewildered, misfit duckling who cannot belong but who tries so hard to belong until he JUST. CANNOT. EVEN. At which point, he gets driven out of the flock into the landscape of despair.

He wanders through the landscape of despair — through the forest of his fears — until he has reached the end of all that he knows.

Finally, exhausted and hungry, he paddles out on the lake in search of solace and food. As he is paddling around, lost and spent, a pair of magnificent swans paddle up alongside him and ask if they can swim with him.

He looks over his shoulder to see if there is somebody else behind to whom they must be talking. The water is empty.

After many backs and forths, he relents and allows himself to swim with them. And as the sun peeks through the thick cloud cover, the glassy surface of the water turns into a giant reflecting glass, into which he looks, expecting to see his familiar, unlovable image.

But instead, he sees quite another image looking back at him — the reflected image of a third, equally magnificent swan on the lake.

I told them, we all wander lost at some point in our lives, but if we hold on and remain clear about what we are searching for, we will all eventually find our flock, our tribe, our true pack. The people with whom we can be authentic and with whom we belong. Estès talks about "belonging as blessing" as a promise, and I have learned that this is true, even though I always find the needle on my gas gauge quivering around the "E" end of the spectrum by this point in my journey.

On my own path right now, I'm not "there" yet. I don't know where I'll be teaching this time next year, but I do know the shape of this journey, and I understand that now is the moment when I need to redouble my faith in the archetype — even though every fiber of my being is ready to just lie down and allow myself to be eaten by whatever hungry ghosts are passing my way.

I told my students that there are patterns to our experience, just as there are patterns in mathematics and the natural world and in human history. And I think that I told them what I needed to hear for myself, namely, that education and growing up is the process of discovering and learning to trust the patterns that are bigger and greater than our own, fidgety little monkey minds.

Thoughts On Making Math Tasks "Stickier"

Last year, the book that changed my teaching practice the most was definitely Dan Pink's Drive: The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us. It helped me to think through how I wanted to structure classroom tasks in order to maximize intrinsic motivation and engagement.

This year, the book that is influencing my teaching practice the most would have to be Made To Stick: Why Some Ideas Survive and Others Die by Chip and Dan Heath. I bought it to read on my Kindle, and I kind of regret that now because it is one of those books (like Drive) that really needs to be waved around at meaningful PD events.

The Heath brothers' thesis is basically that any idea, task, or activity can be made "stickier" by applying six basic principles of stickiness. Their big six are:

1. Simple
2. Unexpected
3. Concrete
4. Credible
5. Emotional
6. Story

The writer in me is bothered by the failure of parallel structure in the last item on this list (Seriously? SERIOUSLY? Would it have killed you to have used a sixth adjective rather than five adjectives and one noun? OTOH, that does make the list a little stickier for me, because my visceral quality of my reaction only adds to the concreteness of my experience, so there is that). But that is a small price to pay for a very useful and compact rubric. It also fits in with nicely with a lot of the brain-based learning ideas that @mgolding and @jreulbach first turned me on to.

This framework can also help us to understand — and hopefully to improve —a lot of so-so ideas that start with a seed of stickiness but haven't yet achieved their optimal sticky potential.

I wanted to write out some of what I mean here.

For example, I have often waxed poetic about Dan Meyer's Graphing Stories, which are a little jewel of stickiness when introducing the practice of graphing situations, yet I find a lot of the other Three-Act Tasks to be curiously flat for me and non-engaging. Some of this has to do with the fact that I am not a particularly visual learner, but I also think there is some value in analyzing my own experience as a formerly discouraged math learner. I have learned that if I can't get myself to be curious and engaged about something, I can't really manage to engage anybody else either.

Made To Stick has given me a vocabulary for analyzing some of what goes wrong for me and what goes right with certain math tasks. The six principles framework are very valuable for me in this regard, both descriptively and prescriptively. For example, Dan's original Graphing Stories lesson meets all of the Heath brothers' criteria. It is simple, unexpected, concrete, credible, emotional, and narrative. The lesson anchors the learning in students' own experience, then opens an unexpected "curiosity gap" in students' knowledge by pointing out some specific bits of knowledge they do not have but could actually reach for if they were simply to reach for it a little bit.

But I would argue that the place where this lesson succeeds most strongly is in its concreteness, which is implemented through Dan's cleverly designed and integrated handout. At first glance, this looks like just another boring student worksheet. But actually, through its clever design and tie-in to the videos, it becomes a concrete, tangible tool that students use to expose and investigate their own curiosity gaps for themselves.

Students discover their own knowledge gap through two distinct, but related physical, sensory moments: the first, when they anchor their own experiences of walking in the forest, crossing over a bridge, and peering out over the railing as they pass over (sorry, bad Passover pun), and the second, when they glance down at the physical worksheet and pencil in their own hands and are asked to connect what they saw with what they must now do.

This connection in the present moment to the students' own physical, tangible experience must not be underestimated.

Watching the video — even watching a worldclass piece of cinematography — is a relatively passive sensory experience for most of us.

But opening a gap between what I see as a viewer and what I hold in my hands — or what I taste (Double-Stuf Oreos!), smell, feel, or hear — and I'm yours forever.

"My work here is done."

This way of thinking has given me a much deeper understanding of why my lessons that integrate two or three sensory modalities always seem to be stickier than my lessons that rely on just one modality. Even when the manipulatives I introduce might seem contrived or artificial, there is value in introducing a second or third sensory dimension to my tasks. In so doing, they both (a) add another access point for students I have not yet reached and (b) expose the gap in students' knowledge by bringing in their present-moment sensory experiences. And these two dimensions can make an enormous different in students' emotional engagement in a math task.

Go graph yourself!

Yesterday I used masking tape to turn the floor of my classroom into a coordinate plane. 

Students had to graph themselves, then find the slope of the line between themselves and various other points in the room. A good time was had by all, and a few insights were had.

Today I think we will also graph all the bits of trash that usually get left on the floor by lunch time. That will give us time to set up for a fierce game of Coordinate Plane Battleship.

Oh, the things we do to promote a deeper conceptual understanding! :)

Standards-Based Grading, or How Teaching For Mastery is Different

Teaching for mastery is different.

Teaching for mastery especially means giving up a lot of old and cherished assumptions about assessment. Anybody who has adopted SBG in any way can attest to this. But I am continually amazed at how unwilling many of us can be to letting go of old, ineffective methods, beliefs, and assumptions about assessment.

At its essence, valuing mastery means not only tracking relative mastery but also accepting mastery as the measure of student success in our classrooms. And that means letting go of the value we have always placed on the routinized behavior of the the dutiful student.

This is is probably the hardest shift of all.

As I shifted over to SBG, I noticed how much of our system of math teaching is organized around students being merely dutiful: sitting still, listening quietly, practicing silently, accepting information without challenge. It's a model of student passivity that places everybody into the known and accepted hierarchy. The "good" students land at the top. The "middle" students land in the middle. And the "weak" students land at the bottom.

But as we all know from having inherited, taught, and assessed these students, this schema does not measure mastery, skill, or comprehension. Dutiful students often lack conceptual understanding or procedural skills. They often have distorted memories of algorithms they heard about but never owned.

Changing over to an SBG system of teaching and assessment has meant that I have to create conditions under which any student — even ones with problem behavior or lack of "dutiful-ness" — can achieve mastery.

To me, this idea exposes the biggest flaw in the existing system. If a teacher or administrator decides from the outset that a given student is a "B-" student, then what reason does that student have to make the effort necessary for improvement?

This system also fails to allow for individual (or group) movement up the fixed staircase of the classroom hierarchy, except for improvements in "dutiful-ness." And it seems to me that if we want to improve access and equity to mathematics for all students, this is the single biggest obstacle we face.

It also seems to me that we need to consider the possibility that any hierarchical model might be transformed from a staircase to an escalator, in which all students can be expected to reach the target floor or level of skills and understanding. And that means we will have to allow for the possibility that all students in a class demonstrate the mastery that is asked in a way that permits them to receive a higher score than the "B-" or "B+" that they have always been pigeonholed into.

What We Actively Value, Versus What We Tell Students We Value

Lately I've become acutely aware of what I actively value in my classroom, which has entailed an uncomfortable amount of noticing the conditioned habits of my teacher personality. I don't collect and stamp homework assignments. I don't have each day's agenda and objective for the day neatly written on the whiteboard by the time the first bell rings. My classroom is pretty messy most of the time. I don't have a good system for filing away those last three copies of every handout for future use. I took great permission from @mgolding's system of daily handouts using her Container Store hanging file system: basically, the handouts migrate downward one pocket until there are no pockets left, at which point they go into the recycling bin.

I've made my peace with these tradeoffs because I discovered early on that if I was allotting attention to those things, then that was attention I wasn't allotting to the things I actually do value.

I adopted an SBG assessment system because it aligns my grading/scoring system with the things I actually value: mastery, effort, and perseverance. And also presence — being fully present with the activity we are doing that I actually care about. And as I've noticed that, I have noticed something else I feel good about in my classroom: my kids know that those are the things I value. Which that means they don't waste valuable life-energy bullshitting me about the small stuff we all know I don't really care about.

This has led to a lot of interesting progress with students I didn't expect to make progress with. Less successful students who don't feel shamed stick around to ask questions and engage in meaningful academic inquiry. They come to my room during their study hall periods to follow up, get help on missed or misunderstood assignments, or ask for additional work they can do to improve their understanding.

Not their grade -- their understanding. Their performance.

I am not used to this, and it causes me a lot of inconvenience. 

Students who have a reputation for giving up and giving in ask me if they can write another draft, reassess their missed algebra skills/concepts questions, and take greater ownership of their learning in my classroom. My ego would like to think this is because I'm such a highly effective teacher, but in actuality, I think it's more that my walk is becoming more aligned with my talk. I care about mastery and effort and perseverance, which means that those are the things I respond to.

What I did not realize until this afternoon is that this also means that I don't respond to things that are NOT those things. Which means that my kids are not expending any effort pretending to care about things around me that they really don't care about either. There is a focus on the work, and there is not a focus on things that are not the work. This may sound obvious, but actually it's not -- or at least, it wasn't for me. It took me years to discover that I'd been walking around in a consensual trance all my life.

This kind of awareness is challenging, to be sure, but it is also incredibly freeing. Students spend a huge part of every school day pretending to care about things that don't actually matter to them. Fitting in, pleasing teachers, winning points. Some of it is necessary but much of it they know to be complete and utter crap.

Ten, fifteen, forty, or fifty minutes of being authentically engaged in something that matters to somebody is a huge thing. Ten, fifteen, forty, or fifty minutes of authentic interaction with someone who is trying to focus as sincerely as possible on what actually matters in this life is even bigger.

I learned this lesson from years of experience with my mentor and teacher, Dr. Fred Joseph Orr — mind to mind, and heart to heart, though it took years to digest, and quite frankly, I'm still digesting. I'll probably be digesting for the rest of my life. No one had ever paid that kind of focused, intensive, thoughtful, and bounded attention and awareness in my presence before. And it made me discover how it feels to feel alive. I only discovered how precious that kind of awareness was -- and still is -- once that chapter of my life ended and a new chapter had begun.

I was noticing all this today during a test in which some of my lowest-performing students were asking for "help" with certain problems. I noticed that each time I came over in response to their request, they were not so much asking for assistance as asking for a kind of authentic engagement and support that was neither judging nor doing for them but simply witnessing their effort with presence. What I noticed today inside myself — and what distinguished this from mere adolescent attention-seekig behavior — was my own felt sense of a embodied memory of seeking out this kind of authentic connection in my own work with Fred. And this felt sense gave me the motivation to allow that connection and that presence. I trusted something inside my own inherent, intelligent functioning that told me to allow the connection rather than to pull back and resist. It was a subtle and quiet movement inside me, and I'm still figuring out what exactly was going on.

How many times have I mistaken noise for the signal? Do discouraged students ask because they hang on to the sane and healthy hope that they can learn and connect and make progress? Fred always told me, "The organism moves toward health," and I grew to believe him. I wonder if this is what my discouraged students are really asking for when they ostensibly make a seemingly attention-seeking request for something called "help."

And this is why I teach...

It was another crappy Friday in an arithmetic series of crappy Fridays that were running together and threatening to define the limit of my patience for fall trimester as x approaches a mid-sized number that is nowhere near infinity. So I have no idea what possessed me to wake up even earlier than usual to pull together an extra day's practice activity for my right-after-lunch class of rumpled and discouraged algebra students — the ones who believe to their core that California's Algebra 1 requirement is God's own punishment for unremembered karmic crimes they must have committed in previous lifetimes.

But I did it.

The topic was solving and graphing compound inequalities — a skill set that must be mastered in order to have any hope of making sense of and mastering the next topic traditional algebra curricula force-feed to our students: the dreaded topic of absolute value inequalities.

There's really nothing I can say to convince a roomful of skeptical eighth graders that compound inequalities will prove not only useful in business planning (which, after all, is simply algebra writ large across the canvas of the economy) but also amusing and possibly even interesting little puzzles to delight the mind.

To this group of students, they're simply another hoop to be jumped through.

So something in me understood that I needed to reframe the task for them, and to do so using Dan Pink's ideas about intrinsic motivation from his book Drive.

Nothing unlocks the eighth grade mind like an authentic offer of autonomy. As I explained recently to a room of educators at a mindfulness meditation training, middle school students suffer emotionally as much as adults, but they have comparatively little autonomy. A little well-targeted compassion about this can carry you for miles with them, though I usually forget this in the heat of working with them.

For this reason, I like to save practice structures such as Kate Nowak's Solve—Crumple—Toss for a moment when they are desperately needed. I have learned to withhold my Tiny Tykes basketball hoop for moments like this, when students need a little burst of wonder in the math classroom. And so even though I was tired and very crabby about the ever-increasing darkness over these mornings, I pushed myself to pull together a graduated, differentiated set of "solve and graph" practice problems to get this group of students over the hump of their own resistance and into the flow experience of practicing computation and analysis.

And oh, was it worth it, in the end.

The boys who are my most discouraged and resistant learners came alive when they understood that a little athletic silliness was to be their reward for persevering through something they considered too boring to give in to. They suddenly came alive with cries of, "Dr. X— watch this shot!" from halfway across the room. One boy who can rarely be convinced to do the minimum amount of classwork completed every problem I provided, then started tutoring other students in how to graph the solution sets and perform a proper crumpled-paper jump shot.

The girls in the class got into it too, but they seemed more excited about the possibility of using my self-inking date stamp to stamp their score sheets. So I gladly handed over the date stamp to whoever wanted to stamp their own successfully solved and graphed inequalities.

I was far more interested in reviewing their mathematics with them. One of the things I love best about practice structures like this one is that they give me an excuse to engage one on one with discouraged students under a time crunch pressure that adds a different dimension to their motivation. Suddenly they not only want to understand what they have done, but they want to understand it quickly, dammit, so they can move on to another problem, another solution, another graph, another bonus point.

Ultimately, Solve—Crumple—Toss becomes an occasion for conceptual breakthroughs in understanding.

I can't tell you why this happens. I can only tell you that it does happen — often. It makes me feel lighter, more buoyant about teaching them algebra. And it makes them feel happier too.

I wanted to write this down so I could capture it and remember this for a few weeks from now, when it stays darker even longer in the mornings and when I feel crappier and crabbier and more forgetful.

Life on the Number Line - board game for real numbers #made4math

UPDATE: Here is a working link to the zip file: https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B8XS5HkHe5eNNy10MWZVSDNKNnc

Last year I blogged about my work on a Number Sense Boot Camp, so I won't rehash all of that here. This year I want to give the follow-up on how I used it last year, what I learned, and how I'm going to use it this year in Algebra 1.

This was my breakthrough unit last year with my students. It anchored our entire Chapter 2 - Real Numbers unit and really solidified both conceptual understanding and procedural fluency in working with real numbers, the real number line, operations on real numbers, and both talking and writing about working with real numbers. We named it Life on the Number Line.

Here's how the actual gameboards, cards, and blank worksheets looks in action (sans students):

I sure hope I didn't make a bonehead mistake in my example problem!

The most effective thing about this activity was that it compressed a great deal of different dimensions of learning into the same activity, requiring learners to work simultaneously with the same material in multiple dimensions. So for example, they had to think about positive and negative numbers directionally in addition to using them computationally. They had to translate from words into math and then calculate (and sometimes reason) their way to a conclusion. They had to represent ideas in visual, verbal, and oral ways. And they had to check their own work to confirm whether or not they could move on, as no external answer key was provided.

Since they played Life on the Number Line for multiple days in groups of three or four players comprising a team who were "competing" in our class standings, learners felt that the game gave them an enormous amount of practice in a very short amount of time. Students also said afterwards that they had liked this activity because it helped them feel very confident about working with the number line and with negative numbers in different contexts.

I also introduced the idea of working toward extra credit as a form of "self-investment" with this game. For each team that completed and checked some large number of problems, I allowed them to earn five extra-credit points that they could "bank" toward the upcoming chapter test. Everyone had to work every problem, and I collected worksheets each day to confirm the work done and the class standings.

What I loved about this idea was that students won either way — either they had the security blanket of knowing they could screw up a test question without it signifying the end of the world, or they got so much practice during class activities that they didn't end up actually needing the five extra credit points!

Students reported that they felt this system gave them an added incentive to find their own intrinsic motivation in playing the game at each new level because it gave them feelings of autonomy, mastery, and purpose in their practice work.

The game boards were beautifully laminated by our fabulous office aide but do not have to be mounted or laminated. The generic/blank worksheets gave students (and me) a clear way of tracking and analyzing their work. And the game cards progressed each day to present a new set of tasks and challenges.

All of these materials are now also posted on the Math Teacher Wiki.

Let me know how these work for you!

UPDATE 10/27/2016: Here is a working link to a zip file of all the components for this: https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B8XS5HkHe5eNNy10MWZVSDNKNnc