Opening

Hours of meetings and gallons of ink have disappeared in the planning of bringing students back on campus in September. Meanwhile, COVID-19, a more efficient operator, marched on, the curve sloping up until some school districts, like LA Unified and San Diego Unified, saw no choice but to hit “pause” on those in-person reopening plans.

This seems like the time to take a quiet moment to center ourselves, acknowledge that we all need each other if any of us are to succeed, and get to work on a remote learning experience that actually works.

We know that not all students have equal access to technology, and that many of the students who have the fewest digital resources are the same kids who have the fewest resources (time, money, and safe environments) when we’re educating them in school buildings made of brick and mortar. It’s not fair. It never has been. 

To provide an equitable experience for all students is a charge education needs to meet, education, the system, not just individual teachers. Tech departments, central offices, folks whose job in the system has them a step or two removed from working in classrooms with kids can make a monumental difference now by finding solutions to make access available to all. As a principal I know I’m part of that system, and I want to do my part. We need to ensure access for each of our students. Remote learning is a voyage through wide waters and every student should have a worthy craft to sail. 

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At the school level we know what needs to happen after that; we need to teach kids.

The challenge teachers and counselors and site administrators need to face is how to provide teaching and learning, connections and support, care and community to our kids, and we need to get working on that now.

We need a schedule. For teachers, for students, for families, we need to have structure that allows us to manage the time (so very, very, very much time) we have at home. Not everyone can meet during the same hours, life and sometimes bandwidth get in the way of that, but having some opportunity for synchronous learning is healthy, both academically and socially. I have two kids, and over the three months this spring when they were learning from home my ninth grader met with each of his teachers at least once a week, sometimes more often; my sixth grader saw a teacher from his 6th grade “team” in real time twice. Two times. It wasn’t a mystery which of the two felt more connected.

Almost all of the parents, teachers, and students who reached out to me from March through June commented on the importance of having some schedule to support some sense of familiarity, provide kids a reason to get up before noon, and give families something they could plan for in the week ahead. Some parents talked about filling out mini-dry erase boards with schedules, one student told me about a spreadsheet she used to keep track of logins for meetings, and while many of my teachers came to the realization that flipping lessons using video could be a smart move, most also spoke about the benefits of having a time every other day or so when they could meet with their kids.

We need a sense of proportion, an understanding of how much is too much, how much is not enough, and how much work is just right. If we were (collectively) Goldilocks this spring, not all of us had found our way out of Mama Bear’s bed when we ended school in the second week of June. We need to find the right fit sooner than that this fall. To do so we’ll need to work collaboratively, look to others with expertise, and agree that not only is remote learning different than learning in classrooms, but the workload is different too. I certainly do not have the answer as to how much work a remote learning situation should have in comparison to a classroom in the schoolhouse, but I do know that for our kids’ sake we need to find out the answer (which might be different in English and history and theater and math) and help our kids find success academically, even as they’re doing school from their kitchen tables.

And no, not every student has a kitchen table to call their own, certainly not at specific times of day when we say school is in session, so we need to acknowledge that too and find ways to support both the students, all of them, and the families as learning migrates from one big building to thousands of homes across our town. 

We need clear communication. As a principal I need to prepare for a remote Back to School Night. I need to provide ways for my school community to ask questions (my twice monthly coffees with the principal over Zoom worked well for this last spring) and give feedback (through surveys and such, where we can get even more information from our students and families). I need to help provide the context for the important work that is happening in classes.

And in those classes, well, we need to figure out how to present information, provide inspiration, ensure accountability, and be relevant.

Lots of folks have written more eloquently and with more information than me about remote learning. We need to learn from them, talk to our teachers, and come up with the plan that will work for our school.

This fall is not, and should not be, a repeat of the spring. In March and April we had to react to a crisis and rebuild our ship at sea. In September we’ve had weeks in dry-dock to make the needed repairs. 

Some of that shipbuilding should include clarity on how students and families can find assignments, an easy way for kids to manage meetings, ways to adequately assess learning, and opportunities to connect meaningfully with teachers and peers in class.

Classes look different, and that’s okay; a dance class, a science lab, orchestra, ceramics, calculus, each subject has nuances that mean there’s no way one size can fit all, and… we can still figure out ways that kids can find the class meetings, assignments, and content in a more uniform way. We can still help families organize time (and perhaps internet related resources like bandwidth and devices) in a way that there is room for all those classes, and maybe also room for a walk around the block.

I’m optimistic that we’ll all be back in our school building this year, I really am, but I’m even more certain that we’ll be learning remotely (whether full time or in some kind of hybrid model) sooner than that.

A couple of weeks ago I hosted a virtual picnic for students. We chatted about summer, looked at photos of the construction at our new campus (opening with fanfare in the fall of 2021), and talked about this upcoming start of school. 

They want to be on campus, but they want it to be safe. They know that some of our artistic pursuits, some of the very reasons we exist as a school at all, like music, and theater, and dance, bring with them added challenges. “Remote poet” has a different ring to it than “remote trumpeter.” And…

The students, like the adults, are so ready to be back. Safely.

So we plan. We plan for 100% remote learning. We plan for the day we can all be back on campus together. And we plan for some kind of in between, where we might gather safely, even if not all at once.

I wish I knew for certain what the 2020-2021 school year would look like. I don’t, at least not right now, but I do believe that we can make something positive out of this fall. Imperfect, yes, but positive.

Because we have the ingredients: students, teachers, and caring. No obstacles, not stress, not physical separation, not uncertainty can overcome the power of teaching and learning. With planning, preparation, and the ability to meet mistakes with grace we can sail forward in the best boat we can fashion for these stormy seas. 

Jessica

I met up with a former student today. The last time I’d seen her she was seventeen and I was twenty-five. Out of the blue a few weeks ago she sent me an email reminding me of our time together in an English Literature class I taught at Hood River Valley High …in 1995. She is teaching now in the same district where I work and she’d spotted my name in some district something or other and reached out to say hello. It was amazing.

We figured out that I’d be over at her school for a district meeting a couple of weeks later, and I planned to swing up to her classroom afterward. The meeting ended early, so I walked upstairs and was guided to her room, empty, but with its door open, sunlight streaming in, a welcoming place. I went inside and looked around. Her Billie Holiday poster on the wall reminded me of the classroom we’d shared twenty five years ago (and a poster of Miles Davis I had over my desk). The student work on the wall, personal photos, and a glowing lamp in the corner made the room feel comfortable and kind.

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I was alone long enough to remember just how young I’d been when I taught in Hood River, and how old I am now. The pictures around her desk told me my student looked amazingly the same, but somewhere in the past quarter century I’ve gone from looking like Captain Kirk to Captain Picard.

And then, as I was thinking about that English Literature class, my first teaching job and one whose lessons I still carry with me, the successes as well as failures, she stepped into the room.

Too seldom do we as educators get to hear from our students. More seldom still are the opportunities to really connect with them as adults and see the people they have become. Today moved me as I got to do just that.

We talked, reminiscing for a few deep and rich minutes before falling into the easy conversation shared by educators and parents everywhere. We both have eleven year olds and teenagers at home, and both share a positive world view rooted in kindness and a profound desire to make a difference.

I’m a gentleman, so I’ll keep the details of our conversation out of this post, but I can say that I left feeling anything by old; our conversation left me renewed. Here was a strong young woman who not only overcame adversity, but who is positively impacting kids every day. With humor and grace she navigated life over the quarter century since I’d last seen her and emerged with a positive perspective and profound power to make a difference. She does.

She certainly made a difference to me as she remembered a couple of instances from that English Lit class, and then told me (smiling and pointing to some notes one the whiteboard at the front of her room) that she’d even used Mary Wollstonecraft in her lessons on the Enlightenment. 

Wollstonecraft was a favorite of mine (particularly when used to set up future discussions on Virginia Woolf) in that class in 1995, and it was a mixture of pride and joy that made me laugh aloud when my former student told me that she’d introduced Wollstonecraft to her own students by comparing her in the Enlightenment to a woman at Star Trek convention: “Yes, there is a girl here! You should listen to her.” 

The same, I thought, could be said of my former student, now the teacher, doing important work with high schoolers every day. 

“I was just young and foolish back then,” I admitted to her as we talked. “I had no idea what I was doing.”

“I thought that,” she told me. “Afterward,” she added, smiling. “Not when you were teaching us, but later.” Another shared connection between two educators.

Mary Wollstonecraft, that woman at a Star Trek convention, wrote: “Friendship is a serious affection; the most sublime of all affections, because it is founded on principle, and cemented by time.” It had been too long since I got to talk with my former student, but seeing her again erased that time, and made our conversation feel to me like one between two old friends.

August Opinions and May Truths

I’ll confess to being one of those people who read more than one book at a time. Some books read faster than others, you see, so that collection of Raymond Carver short stories came and went from my nightstand faster than Conan Doyle’s The Edge of the Unknown, and a few slim volumes of poetry hurried through April, outpacing a book about John Milton I started back at the end of summer. I picked up that biography this week, opened it to find my page, and discovered that the bookmark was a business card, the same rectangle of card stock on which I’d written the notes for my opening speech at back to school night.

IMG_6921At ACMA we do back to school night on the week before students start classes. It’s an unconventional approach in keeping with the creative spirit of our school. Students are encouraged to join parents and guardians as they meet the teachers and see the classrooms where they’ll learn in the year ahead. It’s earlier than early, and it provides us all with a chance to connect before we start the wild rumpus that is a school year.

The principal’s welcoming remarks to the evening follow right after an ice cream social. “So very ACMA,” some might say. They’d be right.

So naturally I paused from my biography and read through my notes for the welcome speech. I’ve long been a person who would rather speak from the heart than be tethered to a script, but this had been my first speech at ACMA, and I remember scribbling out ideas I didn’t want to miss.

“Happy New Year,” the card read, and “Thanks.”

The start of a school year does warrant that celebratory exclamation, and one can never go wrong opening with an appreciation.

This was especially true for me this August, as I stepped into a school new to me, hoping to earn the respect and live up to the kindness ACMA’s school community had already shown me. In May that “Thanks” is heartfelt, said with real appreciation for an almost completed school year that has been filled with creativity, kindness, and more than a few surprises.

IMG_6918Present too were the to be expected challenges of being a part of something greater than oneself, participating in a community of diverse opinions, powerful perspectives, and creative souls.

“Challenges,” the card read beneath “Renewal” and “Fresh Start,” but “Challenges faced together.” I’ve long held that we should not try to avoid the difficult choice or crucial conversation, we should not hide from what is difficult, but face it collectively. Thinking about the hard work that has been a part of this school year, and of the amazing staff, students, and parents I get to work with, those three words carry a truth I’m proud to be a part of.

“Challenges
Faced Together”

And then a reason why, an articulation on the back of that business card of who we are as a school community. I knew, even in those first nervous notes, that ACMA is here to:

“Support our kids
Artistically
Academically
and as people.”

We do. We have. We will.

I closed that first speech by pointing to the heroes. Back to school nights are not about the principal’s welcome; they are about the professionals who have the greatest impact on our students’ lives: the teachers.

I remember standing there in August, in front of the ACMA community for the first time, and looking out at the parents and students, some still finishing their ice cream, and seeing teachers scattered throughout the crowd wearing their staff shirts, smiling. They were, and are, inspirations to me as much as they are to the kids.

That night I ended my remarks by glancing down at that wrinkled business card, now a bookmark, and saying proudly what I know was the most important part of the night. The teachers, who play a huge role in our students’ lives, are here, I said.

“Tonight you’ll meet them.”

Those teachers, so passionate and purposeful about the work they do with students, are more than just the best part of back to school night. Looking back at my notes scribbled on the back of that card, I recognize that anything I am as a principal is empty without all those truths behind it. The front of my metaphoric business card may be professional, but it matters because of the truths written behind it:

The optimism of “Happy New Year.”
The appreciation of “Thanks.”
The valuing of “Renewal” and “Fresh Starts.”
The acknowledgement that Challenges must be Faced Together.
The focus of Supporting our Kids in all ways.
And the understanding of the importance of those I work with every day.

It feels even truer now than it did in August.

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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16

My daughter laughed aloud. My son’s eyes got wide …then he laughed too. Thin, mustachioed, and grinning through newsprint from across the years, the grainy photo of my sixteen year old self (handed to me with a smile by a friend I’ve known since 7th grade) invited me on an unexpected stroll down memory lane.

This surprise gift of an antique newspaper clipping followed close upon a terrific conversation I’d had with my yearbook teacher during which she’d asked me, in three words, to describe what I was like in high school. My three: So. Very. Boring.

FullSizeRender (2)Looking at that thirty year old scrap of newspaper I reconsidered.

It’s not, I realized, that I wasn’t boring; it’s just that in 1986 I didn’t understand that I was. Like so many of the students I work with, my perspective as a high school junior was limited. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I saw the world through the only eyes I had, with the inexperienced vision of an adolescent.

That clipping, when the ink had still been wet, meant the world to me. It was validation of hard work and a signpost that I was on the right path. It was a nod from The Statesman Journal that I was successful.

Three decades later the same piece of paper was a curiosity, good for a moment of fun, but inconsequential in who I am, or better put, who I have become.

That truth, as black and white as a newspaper article, is something educators like me struggle to help our students understand.

“Why would I want to take the PSAT?” a junior asks. “I know what I’m going to do and it doesn’t involve a four year university.”

“I don’t have time for a career inventory,” the senior tells his counselor. “I’ve already got it all planned out.”

I believe the students when they say these things. They are, for them, the truth.

And…

That sixteen year old buffoon I was (with so very much hair) reminds me that as real as that truth is, time has a way of changing us and our perspective in ways that are as unexpected as they are profound.

Who we are in high school is who we are in high school. This is not who we will become.

Our inner core may be the same, go watch Michael Apted’s 7 Up film series if you have any doubts of that, but the way we see the world and our place in it does evolve.

At sixteen I regarded myself as twice as clever and ten times as able as I really was. I acted boldly when I was really scared and tried to look confident when I didn’t have a clue. I took my privilege for granted and my success as a direct result of my talent, not the amalgam of luck, hard work, and the support of others that it really was.

The adult I now am looked at that newspaper clipping and understood more of the truth. Even so, if I were a time traveler who could sit down with my high school self I don’t know that I could persuade him to believe that point of view. Maybe that’s best.

The importance of youthful exuberance should never be undervalued. Sinatra was wrong when he sang that youth was wasted on the young. Youth is the transformative experience that makes us who we are as adults. It empowers us to take on the impossible, believing that for us reality just might make an exception.

As an educator then, how to help my students balance passion and perspective? How do teachers, counselors, and administrators like me help kids see that we are not dismissing their teenage truth even as we encourage them to make choices that keep doors open (that PSAT and career inventory) and give them the options to do great and unexpected things with their emerging lives.

Maybe a part of the answer is introducing them to our sixteen year old selves.

As we are honest with our students about who we were and who we are now, we may have the possibility of helping them see that directions can change and all still may turn out okay.

Engaging with our kids about what it was like for us to navigate adolescence might help them see that the path is seldom straight and that the bends and curves might not only be the reality of growing older, but might also be the best parts of becoming an adult.

On top of that I’d wager that our students might smile at the things that stay the same; driving to work this morning I found myself singing along to Depeche Mode.

At the very least I’ll suggest that as educators we are wise to pause from time to time to put ourselves in our own students’ Chuck Taylor high tops. Memory Lane leads past the corner of Insight and the cul-de-sac of Empathy, if we look up and see them.

If nothing else, that junior with the Tom Selleck mustache is good for a laugh.

Mercy Me

I was an idiot as a teenager. I was not malicious, mostly, though prone to selfishness and the inherent narcissism of an only child in his teenage years. An athlete and solid student, I got the cultural approval of the suburban 1980s and took for granted that I was a white, middle class, and male.

That’s not to say that I flaunted my privilege, or was really cognizant of it, but I realize in retrospect that what I imagined to be confidence could have been seen by some as arrogance or even callousness.

One of the realities of reaching one’s forties is an acceptance, and occasionally healthy embarrassment, of our teenage years. It’s a luxury we deny ourselves in the moment, and a perspective gained only with the passing of time.

As a high school principal, I have the opportunity to watch amazing students transform from kids into young adults. They come to us wide eyed freshmen, described by a friend of mine, another site administrator, as “eighth grade a dayers.” They leave to professional lives in college, trades, and the military. It’s a transformation that can feel like a whiplash.

…and it isn’t always pretty.

Nor should it be.

Adolescence is a time of discovering identity, pushing boundaries, and students finding their own voices. That there will be missteps along the way is a truth as old as time.

It helps me to remember this when I work with students. Those teenagers so passionate about issues that mean so much to them now, and may be forgotten by the time they are thirty, are doing what they need to do to learn how to fight for a cause, stand up against perceived injustice, and speak their minds.

Listening to them does more than simply help the students grow; it can help adults like me become more thoughtful, patient, and purposeful educators.

And when they treat us or each other more harshly than we’d like, or speak before they think of others, or even act in ways that feel rude, perhaps because they are, those moments may just be the opportunities they need to learn. They also may be the opportunities we need to remember, remember our own adolescent years.

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“14 doesn’t look good on anyone.” Particularly me.

…and show empathy.

A wise parent, who had found herself in my office years ago because of a poor choice her child had made, once provided me with a line of perspective that has stuck with me for the better part of a decade. It was weeks after we’d met that first stressful time and we found ourselves standing next to each other at a ballgame, cheering on the freshman team.

We chatted briefly, and I made some kind of comment about her student’s improved behavior. Without embarrassment or anger she smiled and said: “Fourteen doesn’t look good on anyone.”

It’s hyperbolic, of course, but was certainly true of me, and it helps me keep in perspective that all of us do well when we remember that line from Shakespeare: “The quality of mercy is not strained.”

I was an English and Philosophy double major, but it took me until I was close to forty before I really, really understood what Shakespeare was saying. I needed life, not just school, to teach me that.

Truth be told, in the thick of things, when emotions are high and it would be a good idea for everyone in the room to take a breath and a big step back, it’s not always Shakespeare I think of.

I’d like to say I picture Gandhi, or Martin Luther King, or someone with far more patience and wisdom than I’ve ever had, but that’s not always the case. Sometimes, and these are sometimes the best I can do, I simply whisper to myself: “Just remember your own idiocy.” Not perhaps the slogan I want to put on a t-shirt or get tattooed on my arm, but a prompting nonetheless to slow down and do better.

However we get to it, our lives and the lives of those around us, are better when we can apply to everyone we meet, empathy, understanding, and that unstrained quality, mercy.

“So, please understand…”

photo-3-3Not every student has a newborn calf in her barn, but everyone has a story.

I get kidded sometimes for reading more poetry than books on education, but then, when I’m least expecting it, a verse hits me and I realize that a poetic sensibility may be the right way to look at how best to do my job.

It happened a couple of weeks ago when a friend loaned me Edwin Romond’s collection Dream Teaching. With humor and poignancy, Romond captures the essence of working with students, and the interior life of a caring educator.  If I were ever teaching a class on being an administrator, Dream Teaching would be required reading.

One poem struck me particularly. I’m a principal now, so while the poems about teaching sparked nostalgia, “Letter to My Principal” did even more.

The verse, formed as a poetic apology letter from a student, captured a spirit I see in kids all the time.

It begins with what I believe is earnestness and an acknowledgement of a decision technically against the rules:

I came to school late today
and I am sorry.
I do remember your note
about my punctuality
But…”

Those of us who have been site administrators know that our students sometimes make decisions that go against our school rules. We’ve written letters home about attendance and worked with teachers and parents to keep students in class.

Sometimes the temptations that lead kids to be late or absent are silly; sometimes they’re sinister, but Romond’s poem is a reminder that we do our jobs best when we don’t stop at the what, but ask for the why. The narrator of Romond’s “Letter” gives a why to remember.

…a calf was born last night
and I found him blinking
into his first morning…”

Rather than making this an excuse or complaint, the verse veers in a direction our students are not only capable of, but a condition more common in “kids today” than popular culture would have you believe: wonder.

Romond captures this when he writes:

So, please understand
I was caught in a sunrise
so gold it turned our barn
to pink…

…I was set to leave, I swear I was,
but his mother, her eyes dark as plums,
began to bathe him with her tongue
moving like a paint brush
up and down his milky face,
and when he gazed at me
and mooed like a nervous bassoon,
what could I do but stay…”

Now I’m not suggesting the elimination of compulsory education, and any student reading this should know that too many tardies can still keep you from buying a ticket to the dance, but Romond’s poem reminds me just how important it is that in a society rushing so quickly from moment to moment and expectation to expectation, we pause to experience the magic and power of the world.

photo-1-3Education is humanity, not bureaucracy. Rules exist, and must, and alongside them exists beauty so gold it turns the schoolhouse pink.

What would our students write to each of us if they had Romond’s gift for words? What would they tell us if they dared or if we dared to listen?

“Letter to My Principal” dares, and does so with a passion and purpose that kindles thoughts poetic and a reminder to slow down and really listen.

“Have a go…”

ComplicatedPart of a healthy school community is the ability (and opportunity) for parents, students, and educators to talk together about the big issues, ideas, challenges, and opportunities that swirl around our shared experience. Whether we’re moms and dads trying to help our kids navigate a world so different from our own growing up, students faced with a thousand choices every day, or teachers, counselors, and administrators dedicated to helping kids learn, we all benefit from time to connect with each other not in reactionary ways, but proactively identifying topics about which real conversation can yield positive results.

With this in mind, over the past two years I’ve had the pleasure of hosting book clubs at school that give all of us a chance to talk. Those opportunities for parents, teachers, and students have been informative, renewing, and fun. As this new school year begins I’m excited to announce that our first San Dieguito Book Club of 2016-2017 will be on October 18th at 6:00 pm when we’ll talk about It’s Complicated by danah boyd (the lowercase, ee cummingsesque choice of spelling her name is hers, and while the former English teacher in me cringes, I’ll honor it).

The risk of choosing to talk about a book, a real live book, about social media is that it will be outdated before it comes to print. It’s Complicated, however, smartly looks not at particular apps or social media platforms, and instead takes as its starting point the teens that use those apps and platforms. Writing with a great empathy and understanding of those adolescents, boyd presents and addresses typical presuppositions about “kids today” and does a nice job of speaking to issues of privacy, safety, and community.

It’s Complicated gives us much to talk about, but less to fear, and I’m looking forward to hearing what parents have to say about their own perceptions of their son’s and daughter’s online activity, what teachers notice about how social media and the rise of handheld technology has changed education, and what students believe about their own behavior online. These conversations are at the heart of our San Diegutio Book Club.

The New York Times book review captures the reason It’s Complicated is a solid choice for our first (of three) book clubs this year when it notices that “Boyd’s book helps us understand our new environment.” The interconnected online world is certainly different than what most of us parents and educators grew up with, and whether we agree with what boyd has to say a little, a lot, or not at all, It’s Complicated provides us with a great starting point for a discussion of the ubiquitous nature of social media in our teens, and our own, lives.

Last spring, when we ready Julie Lythcott-Haims’ How to Raise an Adult, discussion ranged from parsing direct quotations from the book to heartfelt anecdotes from parents, who realized just how much we really aren’t alone.

I knew just how much we parents were connected by shared experience when we got to the point in our discussion about “grabbing the glue gun” during our kids’ elementary school projects. As parents talked about the successes and missteps they’d experienced helping their students gain independence, lots and lots of heads nodded. We’d all come to the book club caring, curious, and a little nervous, and had all of a sudden found ourselves surrounded by kindred spirits.

As we talked about the challenges of parenting, one mom who’d moved to our town from Australia mentioned the trepidation she saw in her kids’ friends and contrasted that to the more bold Australian attitude that looks at uncertainty and thinks: “Let’s have a go!” We have a long way to go before that spirit of adventure is commonplace, but knowing that we are part of a caring community can help.

book clubIn addition to the parents, many teachers joined the discussion. To hear them talk about the importance of students finding their own voices, gaining confidence, and being willing to take risks inspired us all to think a little more about our role in helping kids become adults.

And those kids… some came to the book club as well. Our parent foundation purchased a few copies of the book for our school library and those copies were checked out on the first day. The students who lent their voices to the conversation brought a richness that those of us who have taught English know can be profound.

I’m optimistic that discussion on the issue of social media will be just as rich, and I look forward to hearing perspectives as varied and passionate as we heard last spring.

Over the next few weeks I’ll share some articles about the topic and excerpts from It’s Complicated, and do my best to encourage us all to learn together, talk with each other, and feel comfortable enough in our shared adventure to smile. We’re not alone and one of the best things we can do is take a deep breath, find our community, and have a go.

Building

When our admin team gathered to take our obligatory pre-school year photo, the choice of backdrops was obvious: construction.

We trotted out past the Mustang sign in front of the school, walked by the iconic bell tower, and positioned ourselves in front of an enormous hole in the ground.

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My assistant hopped up on a low wall to snap the picture, being sure to get not only the bioretention basin and trenches in the photo, but also the expanse of dirt, emerging cement, and a corner of the hulking metal skeleton of the classroom building that will open in the fall …of next year.

Construction is more than a rumbling reality at San Dieguito; building for the future is a metaphor for our work as a school.

Our teachers are amazing builders, their daily work with students in classrooms  the mortar that holds together the edifice of learning. Other adults contribute as well. The watchful eyes of campus supervisors, the organization and heart of an army of classified staff, and the overflowing support of our counselors all help to create an education that can be a shelter in the storm of growing up.

Parents, through their love and involvement, buttress their students, providing strength and support when the pressure gets to be great.

And in the midst of it all, students swing their proverbial hammers and build.

They build the memories they will take with them for a lifetime. They build the friendships that will enrich and nourish them. They build their knowledge and character, their passion and wisdom, brick by brick constructing what their lives will become.

This year, like every other, will be a year of construction. The most important work will take place inside each of our students, the new building rising and the bulldozers moving earth reminding us that it is always our responsibility as educators to build.

Gesso

Early August on a high school campus is hot and a little lonely. As a principal, I get back before most, and until folks start drifting back from summer vacation it’s just me, my assistant, and a skeleton crew of twelve month employees coming to school to get things ready for the start of a new year.

photo 2 (2)That preparation includes everything from organizing our “Taking Care of Business Days” to making sure that the master schedule is the best that it can be. There’s also work to be done preparing for the opening staff meeting, planning ways to bring our campus community closer together, and this summer the steady growl of heavy machinery as construction crews work on two big projects that will make our school better in the long term, but right now constitute a hard hat zone.

Even so, I love early August for the promise of possibility it brings. IT’s now that administrators like me have the relative quiet to set goals and make the plans that will help guide our year. September through June is run at a gallop; August trots.

To mix metaphors, early August is the gesso on the canvas of the year. Oil painters know that to create a work that will last, the canvas needs to be properly prepared. The best painters spend the time necessary applying gesso, the chalky white undercoat put on a canvas, to create a place where the brilliant colors will appear. Like those painters, the preparations we do now allow for the layers and layers of color that will emerge over the months ahead.

534I don’t know what this year’s image will look like yet, nor what colors will fill the proverbial canvas, but I honestly believe that the preparations of August can help to make a true difference come September, January, and May.

So as my intrepid assistant sends out letters of welcome and the men in yellow safety vests and plastic white helmets move the earth around us, my thoughts turn to the painting that will follow this month’s gesso.

The real fun begins as students and teachers begin coming back to campus. Soon.