Riffing with Cavafy

“It does not bother me if outside
winter spreads fog, clouds, and cold.
Spring is within me, true joy.”
          -CP Cavafy

Last week I got to teach.

It has long been a promise I’ve made to myself that every year of being a principal I will set aside time to step back into classrooms and embrace the reason I got into education in the first place: to teach. Over the past few years I’ve had the pleasure of working with middle schoolers and high schoolers, walking the foggy streets with Sherlock Holmes, talking hope with Emily Dickinson and Emily Brontë, and even teaching a little cartooning. This engagement with students is far more than magical; for me connecting with kids is a fundamental reminder of the reason I do what I do, the rationale behind my decisions as a principal, the “why” of my work.

Last week that work brought be to the plains of Troy and five classes of juniors and seniors who had just finished reading Homer’s Iliad. I’d taught the epic a lifetime ago, or at least large swaths of it, in a unit I called the ALIliad, a mashup of Homer’s heroes and Muhammad Ali. It was rollicking fun, perfect for spring term Senior English, and I had fond memories of those busted brain-pans and ancient heroes. For my return to Troy, however, I opted for something more …traditional: CP Cavafy.

Cavafy is an early 20th century Greek poet who lived and wrote in Alexandria. His work, seemingly simple and certainly powerful, captures ideas political, passionate, and personal, and his ability to discuss history and epic in very human ways suggested him as a nice follow up to the hard work the students had already done with Homer. Cavafy builds on the traditional as well as anyone, and I figured some of the students might dig making connections, juxtapositions, and discoveries between and about the two poets.

IMG_1359As rain battered the classroom windows, we started with a little music. To set up the notion of a modern artist riffing on something grand and established I’d given the students the homework of listening to “My Favorite Things,” first the recognizable Julie Andrews version from The Sound of Music film and then John Coltrane’s take on the tune in all its modal glory.

The students, particularly those ridiculously talented student musicians brought amazing perspective to a discussion of the two versions of the tune, juxtaposing Coltrane and the Rodgers and Hammerstein original like professional critics. They led us to where I’d hoped they would: the idea of an artist, to use Coltrane’s line, “looking back at the old things to see them in a new light” and creating something new, something different, something meaningful.

That ACMA is filled with passionate student artists made our discussion richer than I’d imagined.

We followed this Coltrane preface with two essential questions and dove into Cavafy with aplomb. After reading “Trojans” together, students broke into groups and wrestled with four of Cavafy’s poems: “The Horses of Achilles,” “The Funeral of Sarpedon,” “Night March of Priam,” and “When the Watchman Saw the Light.”

I wanted the students to see not only a different take on Homer, but also understand the humanizing Cavafy does to the familiar characters, even immortal ones, and dig how this more modern Greek poet looked “back at the old things and [saw] them in a new light.”

Discussion sparkled, creative students applying their intelligence and spirit to Cavafy’s texts. That they brought insight I hadn’t thought of when planning the lesson shouldn’t have come as a surprise; some of the best things about teaching are those moments when students startle you with an unexpected perspective and creative approach.

We talked about art and grief and love and beauty, and class after class I found myself more and more thankful for the opportunity to spend this time with the students. Classrooms truly are where the magic of education happens.

We ended with “Ithaca,” of course, because, well, Cavafy.

And in that poem of appreciation I heard echoes of last week’s teaching journey.

…do not hurry the voyage at all.
it is better to let it last for long years;
and even to anchor at the isle when you are old,
rich with all that you have gained on the way…”

Last week’s lessons were best when they were unhurried, a luxury limited to the first day and compromised on the second by a shortened schedule and looming assignment justifiably on the students’ minds. But even then, even when the minute hand pushed me forward like a Trojan into an Achaean spear, the experience of connecting with students is one that I am profoundly thankful for.

I walked out of the classroom tired, energized, and happy. For a principal to step back in front of a classroom is a reminder of what an exhausting and exhilarating job being a teacher really is. It is a reminder that the interaction between students and teachers is unique, magical, and (sometimes) profound.

It was raining outside, but my spirit was there on the plains of Troy with Homer, Cavafy, and some of the best students I’ve ever known.

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Failing… Together

The last third or so of Jessica Lahey’s The Gift of Failure takes readers to a place even more intimidating than the dishes in the kitchen sink or the youth soccer pitch; it’s in this meaty final stage of the book that she brings us to …school.

As a principal, and particularly as the principal of a school with sixth through twelfth grade students, I appreciated that while Lahey found some universality in the school experience, she divided her discussion in half, spending time with both middle school and high school (and beyond). While they’re distinctions we minimize here at Arts & Communication Magnet Academy (where we’re a seven year program, like Hogwarts) the reality of the differences between eleven and twelve year olds and seventeen and eighteen year old students is real, and speaking to these differences allows for a clarity that I think will serve us well when we gather for our ACMA Book Club on December 4th to talk about Lahey’s book.

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One of these ideas that I’m likely to read verbatim when we meet comes from Lahey’s perspective as a middle school teacher. She writes:

Here’s the ugly and wonderful truth about middle school: it’s a setup. Middle school teachers ask students to succeed at tasks that their half-cooked, adolescent brains are not yet able to master, and therefore, failure is not an if proposition, it’s a matter of when.”

Lahey breaks down this contention with the more reassuring perspective that while the challenges and responsibilities students face in sixth, seventh, and eighth grade push them to their limits (and beyond), eventually they do get it and the result of this newfound control over their own lives can be amazing. “So fear not,” she writes. “Failure is a fact of life in middle school, so embrace it. Everyone is doing it, even the cool kids. Even the kids who look as though they have it all figured out. …jump in and take advantage of all those learning experiences in the guise of everyday failures, littering the middle school landscape.”

Beyond acknowledging the “landscape” of positive failure, Lahey offers suggestions for both parents and educators on how best to support students through these years of challenge and change. From organization to time management, from schedules to a sense of humor, she lays out practical and possible supports for anyone living and working with these baby giraffes.

Lahey also acknowledges that things shift around ninth grade, speeding up as students make a running start to break out of their parents’ orbit.

That Lahey calls high school students “emerging adults” helps to underscore the message of the book and the importance of supporting our students as they move beyond high school and into adult lives of their own. These are the years students have more safety and support in which to make mistakes. So often as a principal I’ve had conversations with kids and parents about the difference between the choice they made as a sophomore or junior and what that same choice would look like if they were over eighteen. Our society is more forgiving of minors and our school system, at its best, is a place where support and education is the priority over punishment.

Lahey takes this farther, discussing the importance of parents shifting into a new role for their high school aged students. Quoting a high school teacher and administrator, she writes:

When parents take the supporting role, but balance it with the ability (and it is a learned skill for parents) to step aside and watch and welcome and expect the student to choose his/her way, students seem to make the better choices relatively quickly  if not automatically. Students want to do well. They want to make the right choice … but they also want to have the ability to choose.”

What struck me, in addition to the truth I see in the statement, is the parenthetical reality that is so seldom explicitly stated: the ability to step aside and watch “is a learned skill.” How, the principal I am asks, do we do this? If we see this patient parental support as learned behavior, what are we doing to help parents (and students) learn and value it?

It’s a point I look forward to asking the parents and students at our book club about.

One of the parts of The Gift of Failure that I could see being tough to talk about is Lahey’s systematic dissection of grade levels nine through twelve. In this section she takes on the sacrosanct idea of an achievement laden college resume. Quoting a college president she writes:

…the expensive trips to far-flung poverty? Fifty-two activities scattered across the seven days of the week? Honestly. It doesn’t help. Give me a kid with a passion for learning, a kid who has demonstrated some measure of autonomy and motivation. Give me a kid who knows his or her mind. But these things are harder to come by if the child has been tutored and handheld from birth.”

Boom.

But true to form, Lahey doesn’t abandon her readers at the revelation; she spends time unpacking opportunities for students to build their independence and demonstrate the “autonomy and motivation” that college president was talking about.

…and she throws in a marvelous checklist for parents of new college students.

But that checklist wouldn’t feel significant if it wasn’t so necessary. Backing up a step, Lahey ends the book with a section devoted to “succeeding at school.” Wisely beginning the section with a brief history lesson about home and school relationships from the Colonial era through the choppy waters of the seventies and eighties, and the introduction of new measurements and standards of the current day, Lahey educates before moving into an informed discussion of positive and proactive steps parents might take to promote parent-teacher partnerships that benefit students. A partial list directed toward parents includes:

  • SHOW UP AT SCHOOL WITH AN ATTITUDE OF OPTIMISM AND TRUST
  • BE FRIENDLY AND POLITE
  • LET TEACHERS KNOW ABOUT BIG EVENTS UNFOLDING AT HOME
  • BEGIN WITH THE ASSUMPTION THAT YOU HAVE AN INTEREST IN COMMON: THE STUDENT
  • GIVE YOUR CHILD A VOICE
  • IF YOU ARE CONCERNED WITH A TEACHER’S ACTIONS, TALK TO THAT TEACHER

For each of these, as well as the others on the list, I see corollaries for teachers, counselors and administrators like me. For all of us, the last item on the list holds a special truth we’re wise not to ignore: SUPPORT THE STUDENT-TEACHER PARTNERSHIP, EVEN WHEN IT’S CHALLENGING.

As a principal I’d add: especially when it’s challenging.

Lahey ends the book with frank and honest discussions of homework and grades, the twin bugbears of education, and topics I’m sure will support rich discussions on Monday night. In her final pages she turns back to the tough but true message of The Gift of Failure:

If the unpredictability of our own journey is frustrating, the suspense that parents experience as we watch our children’s stories unfold is downright unbearable. Because we can’t possibly know how their stories will end, their failures are the more acute, immediate, and treacherous; more Shakespearean tragedy than quaint anecdote.”

How can we help our kids, and each other, navigate these uncertain and stressful times? Together.

For those interested in being a part of that “together” here at ACMA, our Arts & Communication Magnet Academy Book Club will meet on Monday, December 4th from 6:30 to 8:00 pm in ACMA’s library.

Sometimes

We believe in things that will give us hope
Why shouldn’t we? Why shouldn’t we?
                    -Mary Chapin Carpenter

Much of what I do as a principal is look for hope. I walk the halls, listen to students, ask questions of adults, and seek out those corners of the school where good gathers. When I find it, like a cat, I pounce.

Then I thank.
I share.
And I celebrate the hell out of it.

Because as much as I want to believe Emily Dickinson and cling to the notion of Hope as a thing with feathers that perches in the soul, the more prosaic world has taught me that as often Emily Brontë is right and…

Hope, whose whisper would have given
Balm to all my frenzied pain,
Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,
Went, and ne’er returned again!”

That doesn’t mean you give up. As a principal it means you put on your walking shoes and go birding.

Today hope looked like this:

With just a week left in November, rain forecast every day for the next two weeks, and a mandatory fire drill hanging over our heads, my amazing secretary, intrepid AP, and I looked up at a break in the clouds and considered the possibility of evacuating and getting the kids back in the building before rain returned.

We needed to wait until the end of the period for the drill to count (requirements mandate a drill that takes place at least partly at lunch), so with an eye toward the clouds I sent an email to my staff:

RE: Blame it on the rain…
Hello all,
Put simply, it’s not going to get better, so we’re going to take advantage of what is supposed to be 18 minutes of not-rain to do our mandatory fire drill in just a few minutes. It will start at the end of this period and nudge into first lunch. We’ll get them out and back in as quickly as we can.
Margaret will ring the bell very soon.
Let’s do this,
Bjorn
PS: https://youtu.be/BI5IA8assfk

 

Principals always hope humor helps.

It started to rain, not hard, just enough. We looked from the sky to the clock. Another ten minutes before our drill.

Hope.

Five minutes later I put on my coat. I would not bring an umbrella. Not every teacher would have one for this unexpected drill and I’m a gentleman after all.

Clouds moved above me when I stepped outside. Rain fell, but not hard. The alarm rang and students flooded out.

I whistled a little Milli Vanilli. This might not be too bad.

Kids squinted up at the dark clouds blowing across the sky. Someone was barefoot. Someone else didn’t have a coat. A teacher, hood framing her face, looked at me and said “really?”

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all -“

And then the rain stopped.

We all looked up.

A student said “look,” pointing, and my momentary relief at feeling the rain stop disappeared, replaced by the wonder inspired by the most perfect rainbow I have ever seen.

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It could just as easily have begun to pour.

But today it didn’t.

Today it didn’t.

As beautiful as that rainbow was, reaching over our students and reminding all of us of the artistic beauty of nature, tomorrow’s hope will be just as important. That found hope, seen in the kindness of a student, the caring of a teacher, or any of a thousand things there to be seen by someone looking for them, will have the power to inspire. If I can capture it, celebrate it, and remain thankful I will have done right by my school and those around me.

Life has the capacity and the inclination for greatness.

Sometimes it rains, sure, and sometimes there are rainbows.

Takeover

It all started with brownies, specifically the question of whether an ACMA counselor, Jill, and I would consider baking brownies for an event and letting students judge them. Sure, we agreed, both always game for a little adventure and unlikely to say “no” when students ask us to play.

IMG_4984Yes, and…

What if we filmed it? We asked. You know, like The Great British Bake Off. Here at ACMA we have a robust film department, and it took all of about five seconds to coax three intrepid filmmakers into shooting the contest on a non-student day.

“The Great Brownie Bake Off” we called it. Good. Clean. Fun.

About the same time, our yearbook staff, a creative collection of students, came up with the idea of promoting their social media presence by inviting a series of ACMA folks to “take over” their Snapchat and Instagram ACMA Yearbook accounts. Wild as it sounds, I got the nod for a day. …the same day as The Great Brownie Bake Off!

As the principal a large part of my job is communication. I once worked with a superintendent who liked to say that the principal was the “chief communication officer” of the school. It’s a role I take seriously, putting a priority on parent coffees, keeping our Facebook page up to date, and even tweeting a bit. But those are (mostly) parent communications. The kids? They live elsewhere online, in ranges (mostly) not conquered by those over thirty. My marvelous yearbook students had given me a one day pass into that online student world, something to be appreciated, even embraced with a spirit of play.

IMG_4983My “takeover” took place on a day when students didn’t have classes, an overcast Friday at the end of the quarter set aside for teachers to grade. The brownies would take part of the day and I’d need to figure out a few other fun posts I could share with the kids about what life was like when they weren’t on campus.

Earlier in the week a student had shown me how to post to both Snapchat and Instagram, and left me with the advice: “We like video.” So, early on Friday morning I started with an announcement of my “takeover” and the hope that today would be fun and end with them buying a yearbook.

IMG_5034I visited classrooms to find teachers grading, sharing pictures of our Spanish teacher at her desk, a senior English teacher and his student teacher grading stacks of essays, and then a clip of an amazing math teacher answering another teacher’s grading question with his fart gun. When in doubt, go for the middle school laugh.

Brownies followed, with a series of posts celebrating the playful contest that started it all, and I realized just how hard it is to capture life on social media at the same time it’s being lived. That our kids do this every day astounds me, and maybe makes me a little nervous too.

IMG_5033When I blog or tweet, or even when we celebrate our school’s story on Facebook or our website, a built in time delay takes the urgency off putting something online. This delay slows us down and gives us the opportunity to think about things like merit and message (and spelling). Instagram and Snapchat, at least in my unskilled thumbs, felt hurried and immediate. This, I thought as I hurried to post between melting chocolate and stirring flour, is my students’ reality.

To live this awareness felt different than reading about it. I’ve done book groups on teens and social media, talked with countless kids about the importance of their digital lives, and engaged in meaningful conversation with teachers, parents, and students about the promise and peril of a phone in every hand, but living the reality of feeling the pressure to post something right now was a healthy thing for me to experience as a principal. I’m not sure I liked it, but I believe it made me a more thoughtful educator.

IMG_5031Returning to school, brownies in hand, I took up my tour of campus once again. Along the way I found lots more grading (sensible on a grading day) as well as an art teacher setting up a student display case, my assistant principal setting out rubber coyotes to scare off the migrating geese, and a science teacher’s youngster discovering joy in a pottery wheel. Even on a “day off” ACMA can’t help but inspire young artists.

I ended with a post about what a principal does when students aren’t on campus, remembering my tutor’s advice that students love video, and recording the opening of the Prologue from Shakespeare’s Henry V.

O for a muse of fire that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention
My kingdom for a stage …or an Instagram account that kids follow!”

IMG_5032Shakespeare’s Prologue got it right when he trumpeted the value of clear communication and embraced his role as “cipher to this great accompt.” Schools, like history, are collections of stories, and if we don’t embrace the opportunity to tell our own someone else will.

Telling these stories on Twitter or in this blog is comfortable to me. I feel like I know what I’m doing more often than not, and the feedback I get from my audience lets me know when I’m able to communicate something that matters. Snapchat and Instagram are still unfamiliar to me, even though they’re a natural part of the world my students live in. If I really want to connect and communicate with my kids, if I really want to tell the story of my school, our school, then I’m wise not to neglect these in favor of the familiar.

My “takeover” taught me more than just how to use a couple of types of social media (though I still don’t know filters, stories, and a thousand other possibilities about them); it reminded me of the value of seeing the world, even on the online world, of my students from a different point of view. It reinforced the importance of breaking out of my own comfort zone and trying something different, and doing so publicly and with an optimistic mindset.

Will I use Snapchat or Instagram in the future? Truth be told, not as often as I’ll go back to my more established social media venues, but they don’t scare me, and I do see how partnering with students to use these and other tools can help me be a better cipher to this great accompt. As the chief communication officer for my school, that’s as sweet as a good brownie.

Oregon October

The pewter skies
and perpetually wet blacktop
harbingers of fall
announce sweatshirt weather
cold ears
and clouds
of exhaled breath

Until an October sun
bright
unexpected
perhaps the most
wonderful possibility of the season
allows us to turn our faces to the sky
and feel
the taste of apples
rustle of leaves
and smell of the earliest fireplaces.

At school, students
grown accustomed to the rhythm of the year
daydream spring
textbooks whispering winter
summer so far away

And teachers too
hunkering toward December
right themselves from leaning into autumn

Dig hands into pockets
and smile up at the sun.

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Leaving the Din of Trifles

So, Emerson.

He is my dad’s favorite American author and as such was a constant presence in the literary landscape of my childhood. I came to him on my own terms in college: I was a double major in literature and philosophy, just Ralph Waldo Emerson’s kind of guy I suppose.

Truth be told, Emerson isn’t one I’ve spent lots of time with since I was an undergraduate, but every once in a while I dip into an anthology and am reminded of why my dad likes him as much as he does.

This weekend was one of those once in a whiles.

As a principal ushering in the start of the school year, I turned to “Education,” a posthumously published essay cribbed from notes and commencement addresses and filled with ideas as challenging and thought provoking as any in today’s education landscape.

With a mix nineteenth century circumlocution and New England bluntness, Emerson begins by praising the value of school, writing:

Humanly speaking, the school, the college, society, make the difference between men. All the fairy tales of Aladdin or the invisible Gyges or the talisman that opens kings’ palaces or the enchanted halls underground or in the sea, are any fictions to indicate the one miracle of intellectual enlargement. When a man stupid becomes a man inspired, when one and the same man passes out of the torpid into the perceiving state, leaves the din of trifles, the stupor of the senses, to enter into the quasi-omniscience of high thought–up and down, around, all limits disappear.”

This idea of disappearing limits, of “intellectual enlargement,” of expanding horizons is as worthy a goal in this present century as it was in the nineteenth. Today we talk about education being the gateway to success, and spend much time justifiably focused on equity, knowing that helping every student leave the “din of trifles” and step onto a path of growth will help foster a life enlarged by opportunity.

Emerson’s essay marches through a series of nineteenth century ideas as antiquated in concept as they are in language, and emerges from the intellectual weeds of his time, stumbling into the bright sunlight of the grand and timeless notion: “Education should be as broad as man.”

IMG_4616What he means by this, he explains, is that “the great objective of education should be commensurate with the object of life.” This coupling of grand notion and practical application, similar to contemporary notions of a pedagogy beyond regurgitation, challenges educators to push students to learn, understand, and apply that learning and understanding.

Are we doing this today?

Were educators doing this in Emerson’s time?

Writ large, the answer is “no” or at least not always. The many and frequent measures of academic success: grades, tests, and benchmarks complicate the free acquisition of knowledge and thorough engagement, but Emerson counters with an argument for optimism that is timeless: “I call our system a system of despair,” he writes, “and I find all the correction, all the revolution that is needed and that the best spirits of this age promise, in one word, in Hope.”

Hope, that thing with feathers that perches on the soul, as transformative then as it is now, is something that fills the best educators I know. It allows us to see beyond despair, or the more common annoyance, and focus on the important work of helping support every student in our schools.

Emerson suggests that the answer needed, the “revolution” in education he would like to see to help students become “great hearted” adults, is in transcending what he calls “neat and safe uniformity” and seeing students for who they are.

He suggests that students bring a “variety of genius” to school, and that they are motivated by different passions and purposes. He recognizes, in his very nineteenth century vernacular, two kinds of learners, introvert and extrovert, whom he describes as “obscure youth” learning in “solitude” and the “young giant, brown from his hunting tramp” lustily engaging with life. For both he praises the value of imagination, writing: “the secret of Education lies in respecting the pupil.”

For the introvert this means being allowed to learn “the literature of his virtues; and, because of the disturbing effect of passion and sense, which by a multitude of trifles impede the mind’s eye from the quiet search of that fine horizon-line which truth keeps- the way to knowledge and power has ever been an escape from too much engagement with affairs and possessions.” Don’t make the kid read aloud. As Emerson says later: “There is no want of example of great men, great benefactors, who have been monks and hermits in habit.”

For the happy hunter, learning true to “nature” is a rumbling of “stormy genius” and Emerson suggests that “if he can turn his books to such picturesque account in his fishing and hunting, it is easy to see how his reading and experience, as he has more of both, will interpenetrate each other. And every one desires that this pure vigor of action and wealth of narrative, cheered with so much humor and street rhetoric, should be carried: into the habit of the young man, purged of its uproar and rudeness, but with all its vivacity entire.” Let the kid talk. Let her tell stories. Guide her to less uproar and rudeness, but not at the expense of that pure vigor that makes her who she is.

For both types of learners Emerson argues that “the secret of Education lies in respecting the pupil,” an idea not so far from much of educational theory today.

This isn’t to say, acknowledges Emerson, that we should “throw up the reins of public and private discipline [or] leave the young child to the mad career of his passions and whimsies, and call this anarchy a respect for the child’s nature.”

“Respect the child,” he advises, “respect him to the end, but also respect yourself. Be the companion of his thought, the friend of his friendship, the lover of his virtue, but not kinsman to his sin.” Teachers matter much, and that balance of respect and guidance is as real today as it was when Emerson was writing.

Put simply, Emerson’s focus is on allowing the natural wonder, the “perpetual romance of new life,” to exist side by side with instruction around how to learn. A student “can learn anything which is important to him now that the power to learn is secured; as mechanics say, when one has learned the use of tools, it is easy to work at a new craft.”

That learning how happens step by step, and according to Emerson should never lose the “mutual delight” of teaching and learning. I’d add to that the delight of reading folks like Emerson.

I do my best to read books relevant to my work as a principal, Couros and Dweck, Brown and Lythcott-Haims on the shelf by my desk, but it’s important too not to ignore poetry, philosophy, and even a good kids book when as an educator I set my sights on leaving the din of trifles.

The Gift of Conversation

In the wild rumpus of modern day life one of the things educators, parents, and students do too little of is talking with one another about ideas. Sure we pull together to discuss particular crises, talk grades when the topic comes up, and address immediate challenges, but more seldom do we take a step back and talk about how we got to those situations, or how best we can work together to meet our greater collective goal of helping each of our students learn.

One modest way to confront this challenge of building collective perspective is to carve out time to gather and discuss a topic, inviting diverse points of view to speak, listen, and connect. Bookish as I am, I see a great catalyst for this kind of conversation as books.

To that end, we’re going to try something here at ACMA that I hope might get people talking with one another about how we best support each other and our students. On December 4th we’ll host our first ACMA Book Club.

IMG_4513In the couple of months between now and then, I invite students, parents, guardians, teachers, counselors, staff members, grandmas and grandpas, to read The Gift of Failure by Jessica Lahey. It’s an immensely readable book, with much to agree (and maybe even disagree) with, lots of real examples, and a spirit of hope that I think helps the very serious messages resonate.

As a principal and as a dad I found in Lahey’s book ideas to challenge my practice, inform my decisions, and get me to think about how I was supporting (or maybe even hindering) the kids in my life.

Does everyone need to agree with everything Lahey says? Heck, no, but I honestly believe that The Gift of Failure has the potential to spark some amazing conversations, and what better gift can we give each other in this busy world than an opportunity to talk with each other about how we might make a difference?

 

The ACMA Book Club will meet in the Arts & Communication Magnet Academy library on Tuesday, December 4th from 6:30-8:00 pm.