The students were AMAZING, of course, funny, smart, and more creative than any teenager has any right to be. Zany, clever, and (in an unexpected turn) moving, our yearly comedy sketch show ACMA Live, rechristened ACMA (still a)Live this year, streamed into living rooms last week to the wild applause of students, staff, and families.
As the principal I suppose I ought to bring a sense of trepidation to the show; it’s satire after all, and one never knows where the performers will focus their gaze, but this year more than ever I was looking forward to the event, which came at the end of our first week of hybrid instruction.
It didn’t disappoint.
In addition to a witty student perspective on Zoom meetings, breakout rooms, and a year of online learning, the creative team welcomed in some not ready for primetime players in the over 30 age group: staff hams.
It was a delight.
In addition to a fun skit about a teacher discovering Tik Tok and a master class on comedy starring a dance instructor as a teacher who didn’t know he wasn’t muted (two words: Squirrel Mafia), the kids even let the staff star in a Zoom roll call that I can say from experience was as fun to film as it was to watch.
And it was this last sketch, one in which I got to play “cosplay kid” (a good hearted homage to the inspiring ACMA students who were such a delight when we did our Halloween party last fall) that was my first indication that ACMA (still a)Live was going to be a needed balm after such a strange spring and summer and fall and winter and spring again.
The filming of our roll call was filled with laughter and captured the goofiness that will help us all traverse this pandemic prompted wilderness and return to campus with smiles behind our masks. Laughter, humor, whimsy, all too easy to forget in times of stress, matter much.
ACMA (still a)Live reminded us of this.
As tradition would suggest, the show included some gentle roasting of a handful of neighborhood schools (along with self depreciation about ACMA’s limited skill in the area of sports), but this year added an oddly moving story about a ghost haunting our performing arts center and wondering where all the students went after new construction moved us to a temporary campus last year. Act one of “The PAC Ghost” was that tasty pinch of nostalgia that made the rest of the meal even more delicious.
The show ended with a fantastic “Quarantine” Song, blending music, video, and insight in a celebration of sorts of our school, our artists, and our ability to overcome this crazy year. ACMA is very much still alive, and our students (and staff) still know how to make us laugh.
This has been a crazy year in education, as it has been a crazy year beyond the walls of the schoolhouse. It has been a year when the those schoolhouse walls have expanded to include every kitchen table in town, every student chromebook perched on a stack of pillows, and more than a few garages where a corner between the lawn mower and boxes of holiday decorations has been converted into a place to dance, paint, or play the clarinet.
Now, as the world seems to be turning in a different direction, with some students returning to campus (and a good many other students choosing to remain at home to learn) some of that external craziness is turning into heightened internal emotion. Those feelings, just as confused as the world around us, were described beautifully by one of the seniors at my school who when asked what she and her peers were feeling replied: “Dread. Good natured dread.”
Another adult who was in on the conversation followed up: “Do you mean at school?” She asked, “or in general?” The student paused and then said: “Yeah.”
I loved (and was not surprised by) the way the student phrased things. I work at a ridiculously creative school where iconoclasm is equaled by wit. “Good natured dread” captures both the weariness inspired by the past year or so and the pluck that I know can lift this current generation of students (and the fortunate adults who get to work with them) out of the mire.
If our school was asked “Which Disney princess are you?” We’d answer “Mononoke.”
And her phrase stuck with me as I thought about how best to approach the final weeks of this unusual school year.
Acknowledge the dread, was my first takeaway. That our students and staff and families are feeling pressure, unprecedented stress, and worry is a real thing, and smiling and pretending that isn’t the case doesn’t do anyone any good. The causes of understandable anxiety are many and varied. Not all of us can understand exactly what it’s like to face them all, but as we begin the climb back up to more solid ground it is important that we recognize that the trauma that has helped to define our past year is real and the way through is long, may be complicated, and is best managed by all of us supporting one another.
That community, that sense of good will, that is what I hear in my student’s other two words. Sure there is a level of despair, but our engagement with those emotions can be on our terms, good natured. I quoted the stoic philosopher Epictetus a few posts back and will echo that again here: “Men are disturbed not by the things that happen but by their opinions about those things.”
We can and should face the feelings that have grown over the past months, and it seems to me that we’d be wise to do so with the same strength and cheek of the student describing how she was feeling about school and life.
Back to that princess, hardly Disney, I mentioned earlier. In Hayao Miyazaki’s film Princess Mononoke a character named Osa, bandaged head to toe and wracked by leprosy, tells our hero: “Life is suffering. It is hard. The world is cursed. But still, you find reasons to keep living.”
Epictetus, Miyazaki, that ACMA senior, they each have something to teach us. We are not without stress, or justifiable anxiety, or disappointment, and…
We don’t have to face these alone or without hope. Together it’s natural to bemoan a bit, empathize with one another, and maybe, just maybe, feel good natured dread. I’m convinced that months from now that good natured dread will fuel stories of resilience, shared strength, and the power of our human spirit.
Not long ago my staff and I shifted gears and set aside a chunk of our planned professional development to allow ourselves some time to connect. Once we were there (well, on the Zoom together anyway), people listened and I think heard the overwhelming truth that while we may be stressed, while we may hold on more to worry than we’d like, and while many of us (at least by a show of hands) aren’t sleeping as well as we wish we were, we are not alone.
Along with our stories we shared some laughter, hardly a surprise with our caring staff, and some ideas about how we can continue to adjust things as we start the new semester. Most of all it felt like the alchemy of this adjusted day made something better than gold out of our very raw and real emotions. I think many of us felt something almost akin to hope.
It was nice to have permission to feel that too.
Comprehensive distance learning has been hard. It’s been hard on students, on teachers, on staff, and on families. We try our best and work with purpose and professionalism, and sometimes the results are pretty great. Other times, well, comprehensive distance learning is hard.
So for that professional development, after listing a menu of options for a variety of topics I added one last option for my staff.
“Finally,” I wrote, “I’d like to add one more: permission. If you need to not attend one of these, if you need to go for a walk, snuggle with your pet, or call a friend, then please give yourself permission to do so. You matter so much, and taking care of yourself, showing yourself kindness, and giving yourself grace, all these are important too.”
As educators we are givers. We give to our students, our colleagues, and our school community. We give of our time, our hearts, and sometimes our pocketbooks. We give to everyone who needs us, except (all too often) ourselves.
Few staff members took me up on that final choice, though the responses I got to that PD email were as kind as they were heartfelt, and I like to imagine that the willingness to shift gears and focus on engaging with one another might have helped too.
And then I got an email from one of my amazing teachers who I’d asked for ideas about future PDs. She wrote some very kind words about including that final option and then offered some suggestions that made me smile:
“That’s a long intro to some ideas,” she wrote, “and I don’t know what boxes you have to check so that site PD is indeed site PD, but….
“Permission to relax. Permission to laugh. Permission to learn from our mistakes and from each other without a heavy title/subject attached.
“Remote Teaching BINGO (have had a silly autocorrect in Zoom chat, have typed an angry email that you didn’t send, cried during Zoom, cried after Zoom, stopped everything mid-Zoom and pivoted because it clearly wasn’t working, is feeling your eyesight go downhill because of all this screen time)
“An option to read/listen to/watch all these lovely “we’re not alone/here’s someone who loves teachers giving you advice” articles, clips, etc. that staff members share and I, for one, would love to read/listen to/watch, but honestly… when? If you TOLD me to pick one, sit back and watch it? I would.
“Break out rooms to share something that you’ve been doing that’s totally unrelated to remote teaching. Something human that brings some joy and reminds us that we’re all still living lives that are rich and don’t include a screen.
“Having said all this, there’s no escaping the fact that we’re ALWAYS ON A SCREEN. It’s simply exhausting. And it’s always there. Before, during, and after class… grading, planning, meetings. All of it. For many of us, the only thing stronger than our desire to be with our co-workers and friends is our desire to watch screen time die a quick death. If you could get us all hazmat suits and/or accelerate the vaccine so we could mingle on the blacktop… that’d be great!”
I can’t afford hazmat suits, and I doubt Risk Management would smile on that anyway, but I can weave some of her ideas into future PD. If working with my amazing staff has taught me anything during this strange, strange, strange time, it’s the importance of laughter, of love, and the importance of allowing ourselves permission.
I made a video last week, one of a series of short and somewhat silly attempts to keep a human face in front of my school community, a reminder that we’re all in this together and even separated by the pandemic our ACMA spirit is very much alive. It was, as nearly all my videos are, unscripted and unrehearsed. A friend of mine, Scott, a videographer in San Diego, used to kid me about my single takes and lack of notes. This short kept to that tradition.
As a fellow who likes words, the more I thought about the message of that short message, the more I felt like I wanted to expand on it a little, flesh out my thoughts, add an example or two. That fleshing out is this, a post with the heartfelt, modest message: Keep faith, find joy, and make art.
Restrictions about social gatherings in person, and the fact that we have been away from school since last March have many of us feeling more isolated and apart than we’ve ever felt. One of my counselors compared what we’re experiencing with astronauts journeying out into space. “The difference,” she told me, “is that the astronauts know when they’re coming back to earth.”
So while it’s easy to feel overwhelmed sometimes, to look up from a day of Zoom meetings and just feel tired, to realize after a day or two that you haven’t left the house in a day or two … it’s important to keep faith. We not only will get through this, but we are getting through this.
Right now, as difficult as it is to be separated from friends, to be away from school (for teachers as well as students), and to live with an uncertainty about when things will be a little less strange, we are doing our best. Every day we’re a day closer to students returning to classes. Every day we’re a day closer to welcoming friends and family into our homes. Every day we’re closer to vaccinations and celebrations. Every day.
There’s a line in Tolkien’s The Fellowship of the Ring: “Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.” And while the road has darkened in the past few months, our faith in a world improved need not disappear.
And while we work hard and do all we can to make the most of this imperfect present, it’s also important that we find joy. This could be as simple as petting our cat or dog, strumming a ukulele, or listening to music. It could be texting a friend, playing Minecraft, or going for a walk. I dig reading, others like reality TV, still others want to dance, sing, and write poetry. Yes. Yes. And Yes.
Because even as we understand that our world is not yet the world we would like it to be, and that challenges beyond the pandemic are there waiting for us to face them, it’s okay to take a deep breath and have a cup of hot chocolate.
Finding joy will help to keep us buoyant enough to meet the hardships that we will face. Sharing joy, when we’re able, will help our world overcome those hardships.
Faith, joy, and art. It’s that third one that might really serve as a call to action right now. You see I work at an art school, filled to the brim with creative souls. I miss their smiles, their flair, their way of being in the world every day we’re not on campus, and…
I’m inspired to know that they are still making art. I see it when I visit classes, when I host open mic nights online, and when I walk into the foyer of the school and see the carts with clay, paint, and finished sculpture projects on them (dropped off by students and fired by our amazing ceramics teacher). I saw it in the shirt designed by one of my students, a vision of our school as a human, sensibly wearing a mask. And I feel the truth of a quotation by British novelist Iris Murdoch that I used to have hanging in my classroom:
“Art is not cozy and it is not mocked. Art tells the only truth that ultimately matters. It is the light by which human things can be mended. And after art there is, let me assure you all, nothing.”
Age has led me to believe that art might not be the only thing that matters, but I do believe that art and artists do change the world. Today, as I looked back on that little video I thought of the students, staff, and parents who make up my school family and I was filled with faith, joy, and the desire to make art.
I work at a creative school filled with whimsical and imaginative people who make art, support each other, and like to dress up. Every October this means that we have an opportunity to unleash that creativity. At ACMA Halloween is a national holiday, and this year, separated by the pandemic, Halloween had to look different.
We decided on a pumpkin carving contest online, cobbling together a video of dancing students (filmed individually and spliced together by our intrepid film students), and… and we knew we wanted something else. We wanted to see if there was a way to be more together. The experience we needed, needed after weeks connecting only through computer screens, was to be on campus together. So…
We planned a Fall Fest, our usual name for ACMA’s October party, as a “walk through” event. Students would get dropped off on one end of campus, stroll along the wide sidewalk past parked staff cars, their trunks open and filled with candy, and circle around outside the building to dance, play, and laugh through their masks, and then exit out the other end of campus.
Walking along the sidewalk, at a safe social distance of course, I spotted a steampunk librarian, the Incredible Hulk, a couple of hobbits, and the inflatable robot from Big Hero 6 …and that was just the teachers. One dance instructor in a long blonde wig, a black cape and plastic teeth came up to me and asked: “Do you think the kids will recognize the vampire Lestat?” “No,” I answered. His costume was great, but did kids still read Anne Rice or watch horror movies from the 1990s? “How about if I say Tom Cruise?” “No.”
But maybe I was wrong, because ACMA students often surprise us. They surprise us with their wit, their perspective, and their creativity. On Halloween that creativity shines.
So we saw pirates, plague doctors, and a menagerie of animals. An impressive knight and his lady strolled through, making ACMA feel like Camelot. A flapper danced in, and when I asked her if she was reading Gatsby in English she answered: “I did last year and I’m bringing it back!” Some costumes were fantastical, like the astounding Queen of Hearts, and others subtle, like the student in a t-shrit that said “feminist” and a pair of glasses that made me ask: “Gloria Steinem?” The student smiled. “Yes.” Her costume was, as they say, so very ACMA. It was awesome.
Flights of Anime characters walked through campus, and I was happy to have recognized Totoro. Skeletons, cowpokes, and Wednesday from the Addams family filled ACMA with energy and from the werewolf who greeted students at the front gate to the ghostbuster near the exit, the positivity that everyone brought to the day was amazing.
The students were great, walking through the candy corridor, taking photos, dancing (with direction from a couple of our amazing ACMA dancers), and playing some outdoor games that allowed everyone to stay more than six feet apart. I couldn’t see the smiles behind the sensible facemasks, but I could tell they were there, and (true to ACMA form) just about every student said “Thank you” as they left the Fall Fest to get picked up on the other end of campus.
After more than a few days of stress, problems to be solved, challenges that tested our collective resolve, to see moments of joy was a rare and wonderful experience.
Then, as I spotted our bewigged Lestat laughing and chatting with the teacher who was dressed as a farmer and another whose striped red and white shirt and red beanie told me we’d found Waldo, I knew that today’s Fall Fest was as good for the adults at my school as as it was for the students. In this world of Zoom and email, separated from physical proximity and lonely for the best part of education, connecting, today was magical.
After the day was over a teacher who had been taking photos for the yearbook came up to me and told me that she heard a student tell a friend: “This is not the experience I thought I’d have, but it’s the experience I realize I needed.”
These days that statement is just about the highest praise we can aspire to. Because we need each other. We need to laugh, look into each other’s eyes, hear human voices without the help of a computer, dress up, have fun, and know that we are not alone. Today’s Fall Fest did that for many of us, students and staff alike.
I was talking with one of our school counselors yesterday and as we discussed the pandemic, the upcoming election, distance learning, and the thousand stresses on our kids, staff, and families she shook her head and said “we just need something to look forward to.” Boy do we.
Then today it happened, an outpouring of exuberance, an hour of performance, and enough applause and positive encouragement to lift my spirits (and everyone’s on the Zoom meeting) higher than they’d been in weeks: Open Mic Night.
When we’re in the building, ACMA’s Open Mic Night is a monthly affair where students have an opportunity to perform for peers, parents, and friends in a low pressure/high applause setting. From its first imaginings Open Mic has been a place where we acknowledge the courage it takes for a teenager to stand up in front of an audience and sing a song, read a poem, or share a story, and at the same time we flex our good audience muscles and approach the event as an opportunity to celebrate that courage and creativity with cheers to raise the roof. These days the roof isn’t something we share; my roof is separate from yours, yours is in a different building than mine, and we all have to work a little harder to come together to make art. But we do.
And today we did. A lineup of students (with a couple of younger siblings thrown in the mix) delighted our audience of fellow students, ACMA staff, parents, and grandparents with acts as diverse as a song in ASL, an a capella rendition of “You’ll be Back” from Hamilton, a rowdy piano pounding out “Maple Leaf Rag,” and the cover of tune by Tom Petty.
It was glorious.
…and a lot of just good clean fun. Listening to our students sing, some so talented that I noticed the affirmations that were showing up in the chat switching TO ALL CAPS! AND STAYING THERE COMMENT AFTER COMMENT AFTER COMMENT, RECOGNIZING THE RIDICULOUS TALENT OF THESE PERFORMERS!
I feel a boost of adrenaline just writing about it.
Because, just like that counselor said, we need something to look forward to. We need voices raised in song, we need to laugh, we need to fawn over babies and pets as they appear on screen, we need art, and most of all we need each other.
Today was a simple affair: kids singing songs, an audience cheering them on, everything over the computer and all done in less than an hour, and…
…and today was more than just a simple affair. It was something to look forward to.
For the first time in months I saw most of my students on campus yesterday. Well, saw them drive through campus, peeking at me from over masks as we passed out textbooks, ACMA t-shirts, and hundreds of pounds of clay. As an art school the drawing and painting materials, sculpture tools, instruments and sheet music occupied as much of the day as calculus, biology, or French textbooks, and sometimes inspired a slightly different reaction from the students as we reached over the (overly cute) dogs and gave them the stack as they sat in the back seat.
It was so good to see so many students and parents, and even though it was really only seeing their eyes and the top of their noses, it was enough to remind all of us just how important a part of our lives the people are who make up our little art school, our ACMA family.
For hours an intrepid group of classified staff and a handful of teachers, counselors, and I dashed from cars to tables to pick up supplies, did our best to solve problems, and reveled in the opportunity to make brief, but meaningful connections.
I don’t know about everyone else, but I ended the day tired. A good tired.
This distance learning model, as safe and sensible as it is —and right now I know it’s the right choice— still feels so strange. I love talking with students and staff. I miss full hallways and impromptu conversations. Being able to visit classrooms is a highlight for me every day, at least it was when I could slip in through an open door and sit down next to a student studying Spanish, or dissecting a pig, or painting a still life.
How much I missed that was brought home yesterday as I saw face after face (well, mask after mask) drive by. I could see the smiles in those eyes, and I hope they could see the smile in mine.
And while my legs are sore and I can feel it in my back, I can honestly say that yesterday was more than just me and our school team distributing supplies; it was all of us getting something precious back in return, connection, hope, and a touch of joy.
I’m a dad as well as a principal, with the perspective of both during this time of pandemic and comprehensive distance learning. When other parents share their concerns about their kids’ social isolation, depression, and loneliness I get it, and I share that parental anxiety about how all this is impacting the young people I love.
Last spring was hard, a complete shift to online learning without much time to process or prepare. We all did our best to learn how to support our students, but without grades, or attendance, or a fully developed system in place, very often it felt more like crisis management than online learning.
Summer was tough too. So many of the usual activities we enjoy were off limits, smiles were hidden behind masks, and so much of the joy of summer, like spending time with friends, was limited by the reality in which we live. The kids felt it at least as much as the adults, maybe more, and while I saw more than a few packs of middle schoolers on bikes in July and August, the truth is that the most socializing I saw this summer happened in the world of Minecraft.
And now fall. This week we’re diving into classes, albeit 100% remotely, and once again parents and kids are gathered around kitchen tables, on couches, and corners of bedrooms where they are least likely to be interrupted by whatever else is happening at home, attempting to “do school” in some way or another. That’s stressful.
But as separate as we all are, parents and educators share the goal of helping our students succeed. There are lots of ways we do that, and one idea I shared from a teacher a couple of weeks ago that seemed to resonate with a few parents, was to take the pressure of teaching off the parents and encourage them to see themselves in a role of facilitation and support.
Establish an appropriate balance between work and free time
Minimize distractions during work time and persist through challenges
Make the most of free time
Verify completion of assignments
Formulate questions for kids to ask their teacher
These are worth unpacking, and to start that conversation I offer a few modest thoughts.
Many of us have seen our work/home balance blur during these months at home. Too often since last March I’ve looked up from my work computer, often sitting at a TV tray out of the way of my family, and been surprised that it’s already dark outside. Unlike before, there is less delineation between being at home and being at work, and I know (from experience with my own kids) that isn’t different for our students. While comprehensive distance learning will have asynchronous elements, helping our kids step away from the computer will be vital to their mental health and success. Whether it’s making sure they unplug from 11-12 every day, the time our district has set aside for a lunch and stretch break, or monitoring to be sure that they don’t get sucked down the rabbit hole of never being done with schoolwork, it is a challenge worth meeting to help our kids see that some time has to be down time.
Complicating that balance will be the fact that for most of us, teachers and students and families, this is our first foray into full online learning, grades and attendance included. We didn’t sign up for this; if we had, we’d know it was for us and we’d already have an understanding of how to navigate these waters.
Teachers will be learning as we go, answering questions like: how much work is appropriate? How do students best get answers to questions? How can I support the kids, assess the kids learning, and reach them when I only see them through a computer screen? Students, who so often are so earnest in their desire to do well, will be learning too. It’s already tough to know how much time an assignment should take to complete, but now… Open communication, clear expectations, patience, and grace will all need to be on display now more than ever.
For parents “establishing an appropriate balance between work and free time” could involve some argument, anxiety, and tears. Any parent who has tried to get her son to unplug from Fortnite knows what that’s like. But knowing our kids and helping them understand when a walk is more important than another half hour typing an essay about poetry is going to make a big difference this school year.
A schedule might help this. It’s always easier to point to something agreed on and in writing when stress is filling the air. When I was an assistant principal one of the best things my school did was install signs around campus stating obvious things like “No Dogs” or “No Smoking on School Property.” It was always easier to confront a community member who was breaking one of these rules if we could literally point at a sign. This could also help reinforce that “free time” is as valuable in the greater scheme of things as “work.”
Even when we get that balance right, when we’re on, we’re on, and the students who succeed most have the ability to focus on the matter at hand, particularly when they’re Zooming with it. Learning from home brings different challenges than learning in a classroom. Whether it’s trying to type with a dog on your lap or interruptions to online meetings from siblings, cats, or Amazon deliveries, finding a way to overcome the distractions is a job that parents can certainly help their kids with.
There is lots of good advice about how to create a learning space for kids, but the truth of it is that not everyone has a table, desk, or quiet space for kids. It’s not fair, but it is. As a school we’re trying to help; we offered a greenscreen (well a big green sheet of paper) to each of our kids, so they could have a bit more privacy when they did video conferencing, and as parents we can support our kids if we help them in whatever way we’re able to have the privacy they need for school.
That privacy, however, is complemented by an extra pair of eyes checking to see that things get done. My experience has been that this is best accomplished when a parent or guardian sits down with a student and asks her to show them what they did for school. There is a big difference between a parent checking a student’s grades or that they did the assignment that the teacher gave them and a student showing that same adult what she did and learned. The second can empower a student; the first can sow seeds of distrust.
So I would offer that a conversation between a parent (or grandparent or aunt or caring adult person) and student can be one of the best ways we can support learning. In that conversation you can learn what’s happening, how the student is feeling, and talk about what kinds of questions it might be smart to ask in class or in an email to the teacher. These follow up questions not only show that a student is invested, but can help build a strong foundation of skills on which to build future learning.
It’s that learning that is the primary job of all of us, students, teachers, and families. We can do this, to the best of our ability, if we do this together. Will it be perfect? No, but it can be positive. And when we return, which we will, the habits of supporting one another may help us even as we readjust to life after the pandemic.
Stay positive, stay strong, stay connected. We’re partners in this.
The five am wakeup felt familiar. The day teachers come back to campus after summer vacation is (for me as a principal) my first day of school. I still get butterflies, and probably always will, before the year begins. That’s normal, I suppose; I want so much to get things off to a good start.
But this year the teachers didn’t come back to campus proper. My early trip to my office, pausing for a predawn selfie, was followed not by my usual pancake breakfast for the staff and gathering in the library, but by a Zoom meeting where teacher faces looked back at me from kitchen tables, extra bedrooms, and makeshift offices from Portland to Forest Grove.
More than a few cats and kids joined us for the morning, and the playful banter in the chat was a nice reminder that even though we were discussing what is an unusual (and unusually stressful) start of the school year, we’re all friends here and ready to support one another.
That caring and support was a highlight of the morning. People were real when they talked about what made them anxious, what was keeping them up at night, and what they were feeling about the year ahead, and when someone suggested the importance of each of us helping each other (with new technology, planning for distance learning, and how best to connect with kids) the avalanche of volunteers who put their cell phone numbers into the chat to make it easy to connect was profound.
We’ll be okay, better than okay really, because we honestly care for each other and are there to help everyone succeed. And when we don’t succeed I’m convinced we’ll be there to help each other pick up the pieces.
It was this spirit of professional generosity that moved me most on this “first day of school” and reminded me of the very special school community that I’m so fortunate to be a part of.
I never take that for granted, but after a couple of months away from campus to see my staff together, even in boxes on a screen, felt really, really good.
It was a perfect follow up to the email I received from an incoming student the night before:
I am so excited for this year at ACMA! Obviously this is not how I imagined my first day of 6th grade going but we all are making the best of this situation. I worked so hard to get into this school and am looking forward to my experience. I have heard nothing but positives about ACMA and I can’t imagine not being there. I have wanted to go to this school for as long as I could remember. I am so excited to meet you and the teachers and excited to work with all of you. Can’t wait to start ACMA in two weeks!”
I’m looking forward to the year ahead too, and to all the people —staff, students, and families— I get to spend time with. We may not be in the same building, at least not for a little while, but we’re still here for each other.
I hear that video killed the radio star, and (if the kids today are to be believed) that if any principals like me want to capture the attention of our school communities we need to do more than churn out long winded blog posts like mine and get about the business of making movies. Well, short videos anyway, that just might be more appealing than a short reading assignment.
I’m taking that call for video to heart, particularly in this time of physical separation prompted by the ongoing pandemic. Even if I can’t see my students and families face to face every morning at least I can put my face out there to help keep the connection between home and school.
To do this I’m aiming for short hellos every Monday as a part of our ACMA Monday Message, a one page update with what to look forward to that week. In addition I’m filming some silly little shorts with specific topics (Zoom, support, stress reduction), and plan on a couple of “Fireside Chats” every month while we’re away from campus.
I know that seeing someone’s face, hearing their voice, and watching them as they communicate can help make the message clear. Sure there’s a bit of theatricality to it all, but at the end of the day I work at an art school and a little theatre is just fine.
It also means that I may be building a catalogue of buffoonery that I’ll look back on in a few years and shake my head about. That’s okay. Sometimes it’s okay to play the fool, particularly when it’s done with an open heart and desire to do the right thing.
Will anyone watch? We’ll see. If they do I can promise information, a window into ACMA, and a face that was made for radio.