Kitty Litter

I was in a scriptwriting class on Monday and heard the teacher delight his class with the truth that as a writer and filmmaker there were times a young auteur would be given the challenge to “make kitty litter sexy.” The class laughed, of course, and he went on to lay down the truth that part of what good storytellers of any medium can do is take something simple and make it interesting. It was later that day that I found myself looking at the proverbial box of litter.

I knew where to turn.

My kitty litter was explaining the concept of ACMA’s “Access” period to students new to our school as well as how they can use our online system to sign up to visit teachers and get help. A schedule adjustment had made it so that the time we’d originally set aside to do this task would take place after the first Access. Gulp.

I turned to my student filmmakers.

Tromping out to my film teacher’s classroom I hoped I could coax a couple of students to help put together something informative we could share with new students. I had in mind something modest, and I had a deadline of just over 24 hours.

Screen Shot 2017-09-14 at 8.49.59 AMAs students do when we believe in them, they more than rose to the occasion.

We talked briefly about the task at hand, they nodded and said they could do it.

By the next morning a student stopped by my desk to film my cameo in the short, her patience and smile reassuring me that things were going to be just fine.

Tuesday afternoon two inspired students swooped into my office with a rough cut that they adjusted as I watched. Witty, short, and clear, what they’d created did more than I expected to make the topic accessible to new students and provide not only what Access is, but also how the students could sign up for it.

Screen Shot 2017-09-14 at 8.50.16 AMWe sent it out to all new families that night, and Wednesday morning, as Access rolled out for the first time this year the result was students, veteran and novice, in classrooms getting help from the teachers they needed to meet.

The student filmmakers received no “points” for making the short, nor did they even add their names to the credits (though I hope to persuade them to do so on the next short I ask them to make). They stepped up, however, to do something for their school and for the students new to our ACMA family. They brought humor and polish to their work, and even enlisted a real life new-to-ACMA student in the starring role of “new student.” They were, not to put too fine a point on it, the kind of inspiration that led Emerson to say “Trust men and they will be true to you; treat them greatly and they will show themselves great.”

Every week I am inspired by the young people I have the privilege to work with. Wednesday that inspiration came in the form of a minute and five seconds of kindness and creativity.

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“Thank you for your patience…”

photo 5I was not being patient. I seethed. We’d boarded the plane with the thought we’d take off. Waiting to deplane after sitting in the cabin for almost an hour, knowing we’d miss our connecting flight, I’d already made the silent vow never to fly that particular airline again. This was the first day of our summer vacation, and all I wanted to do was get to Vancouver Island and find our hotel.

As a principal, I know I’ve been on the other side of the phrase “thank you for your patience.” It’s not unusual to be called upon to deliver tough news to parents, teachers, and students. There isn’t a great way to say “we’ve got to close the theater until we can get out the rats” or “these are the nicest port-a-potties that we could rent.”

I’ve always done my best to be honest and direct, but even so I know I’ve left people feeling like I did as I pulled my carry on down from the overhead bin.

I checked Twitter once we got back into the San Diego Airport and were given a time, an hour or so away, that we’d be getting back on a plane. I keep a professional account, so there wasn’t any real temptation to post something snarky about the airline, but I was frustrated, the kids were jostling, and I hoped for 140 characters of humor or inspiration.

photo 1I found it in a tweet from our superintendent, a photo of a sign I’d love to have on my desk: “WARNING! This principal is going to ask “What is best for kids?”

And I realized one of the reasons I’d been so frustrated at being thanked for the patience I didn’t have. Perspective.

No one really told us why.

“We have a computer part that isn’t working,” they’d said in an almost inaudible tone over the intercom, the pilot’s voice so soft it felt like he didn’t really want us to hear.

photo (1)Writing this from the balcony of our hotel in Victoria, I have the distance to realize that the pilot had no control over the broken part. He certainly wasn’t pleased about it any more than I was. He may have been a little embarrassed or a little shaken himself.

I’ve been that pilot at my own school, and I know that whether the difficult news I have to deliver is a result of a decision I’ve made or something I beyond my immediate control, I can’t lower my voice so as not to be heard. I need to speak clearly and provide a rationale to why what’s happening is happening.

“If we take off without replacing this part we’re all going to die.”

Maybe not that bald faced. I’m not sure that would have made me feel all that much better.

This year I know that I will do my best to explain the why in the messages I deliver. Like the pilot whose mission is to get passengers from point A to point B safely, mine should be as simple: “Do what’s right for kids.”

I’m certain there will be times I need to ask for people’s patience in the months ahead, and as I do I won’t forget what it feels like, luggage in hand, kids tugging on my jacket, to have to hear it.

Bird is the Word

birdWith a tenacity that astounded me, the bird flew at my office window, pecking the glass and flying back to the tree near the entrance to campus. A Yellow Breasted Chat (I looked it up) the bird announced it’s knocking on the glass with a throaty cry, acting as if it had something really important to tell me.

It didn’t. It was a bird.

But as I watched this collection of feathers and frustration come at my window (over and over and over again) I thought about the times I’ve seen equal determination in those around me, hellbent on giving the principal (or the school or the district) a message, but unable to make themselves clear.

Sometimes it’s language. Institutions speak the language of bureaucracy, and speak that with an English accent. As a principal I know how important it is that I take the time to avoid the acronyms of education and the obtuse vernacular of legal language. I recognize both the legal and moral obligations of communicating in the languages the families at my school speak, and saw in this bird a reminder of how frustrating it can be when I talk more like a principal than like a dad, or when I’m careless or hurried in my communication.

Sometimes it’s fear. Over a couple of decades working in schools,  I’ve learned that an overwhelming majority of parents really respect education and educators. Some feel nervous or hesitant reporting information they know might be seen as bad news. In these cases it isn’t as much about miscommunication as it is silence. Inside these moms and dads, grandmothers and grandfathers, uncles and aunts, the desire to cry out is held back by the fear of disappointment, or (at it’s worst) the potential of not being heard. As I watched that bird banging against my window, I jotted notes to myself to do more to reach out to the school community and invite every voice into the conversation.

Sometimes it’s that our message is misdirected. This has happened to me more than a few times when I was on the other end of the communication, with something I needed to say, looking for someone who could hear me. In those times I wanted so much for the person I identified as having a solution to be the right one; too often I realized later that I was wrong. Like that Yellow Breasted Chat, sometimes our hopes outweigh reality, and the message we want so much to deliver isn’t really meant for the one we had in mind.

I see great people come to my office with challenges that my role as principal does not provide me the ability to solve. I listen, genuinely, sharing when I can, and giving them whatever I’m able, even if it’s only compassion. Some leave lighter. Some leave as frustrated as the bird at my window, wanting beyond hope that I could do something more to fix/cure/solve the problem that brought them to my office.

Whatever the cause of our banging up against a window, our beaks and claws scratching for a hold on the thing we can see, but not reach, we do well when we regroup, perch on a nearby branch, and try to figure out how we might get our message across differently.

My assistant, who was watching this strange occurrence, looked at me and said: “You know, they say sometimes animals can sense things we can’t.”

Not reassuring.

photo 3I had empathy for that bird, and though I’m no Dr. Doolittle, after a while I went outside. I’m not sure what I was hoping for.

The bird tipped its head when I got near, looking at me out of one shining black eye. “You’re going to get hurt,” I told it.

It chirped once, as if it couldn’t understand what I was saying, and flew away.