Teaching to Learn, Part 7: Growth

Artists have a way of making art look effortless.  They hide every previous sketch, every old draft, every pen stroke and brush stroke and backstroke that came before the spectacle that you now admire.  For most of my life, artists had me fooled.  I believed that art came effortlessly to artists.  I believed that there were artists – those who “had it,” – and then there were the rest of us.  With lots of hard work we could perhaps approximate art, but we could never become artists.*

Last year, I stopped telling myself that I am not an artist.

~~

Tonight I’m performing in a show.  It’s the second time I’ve been invited to perform poetry in the past month.  I will try to make it look like art: cohesive, graceful and polished.  I will attempt artistic deceit.  If all goes well the audience will not see the scribbled pages of my pocket notebook, the indents on my couch from ass-hours accrued, the dilated capillaries when I felt the anxiety of having previous drafts scrutinized, the megabytes of hard drive space coded with the recordings I made after hearing the criticism “you read all your poems the same way.”

Eight months ago I had never written or performed a spoken word piece.  Two things happened since.

The first was a shift in mindset.  When I stopped telling myself that I am not an artist, I started improving at something I thought I could never improve at.  I didn’t even go so far as to say that I was an artist; I just quieted my self-doubt enough to give it a try.

Second, I had support.  Lots of it.  In May we started a writing group that meets weekly in my living room.  At first I didn’t want to share my poems.  I wanted to edit my own work, keep it under wraps, and then surprise everyone with my brilliance each time I performed a new piece.

It’s a pretty solid strategy, if your goal is to churn out dull political litanies and abstract sentimentality.  Believing in yourself is a diet without exercise: it only takes you so far.  That adage “you can do anything you put your mind to,” is one part optimism and two parts bullshit.  You need support.

Poetry got me thinking about growth, but teaching helped me understand it.  The school I serve at really believes in growth.  We talk about having a “growth mindset,” for ourselves and for our students.  We use a standards-based grading system that tracks student growth in specific skills, rather than their overall achievement in a subject.  There are no weaknesses, only "growth areas."

At first the growth language sounded like corporate jargon, the kind that wandered into charter schools behind the rush of the reform movement.**   I tend to be pretty wary of anything that hints of corporate culture, so at first I heard it with a fair bit of skepticism.

A poorly written book
that you should read anyway.

The growth language actually comes from a book called Mindset, which is required reading for all full-time staff in my school’s charter network.  The book itself is poorly written, oversimplified and filled with way too many anecdotes that all make the exact same point.  But the point is a really, really good one:

Ability is malleable.  We do have predispositions: genetic traits or early-life experiences that determine your base line for a specific ability.  Still, things that we might think of as fixed such as intelligence, musicality, athletics, or interpersonal skills, we can actually improve, or diminish.

I already believed this to some extent – we all learned how to read at some point; we can all remember a time in our lives when we were more physically fit than we are now – but I always saw a distinction between skills like reading and algebra (skills I thought I could improve at) and skills like painting, poetry or music (skills I thought I couldn't).

According to Mindset author Carol Dweck, the first and most significant barrier to growth is the whisper in our heads telling us with aggressive certainty, “I am not good at this.”  Or conversely, “I am good at this, and I don’t need to work at it.”

It’s a great lesson for my students, many of whom have voices in their heads, and sometimes real human voices, telling them things like, "Black males act violently," or "People from your neighborhood don't graduate high school," or “You are not smart.”  When you already believe these things, a school can easily serve as an environment that reinforces them.

The trick, then, is to talk about intelligence and demeanor and destiny as things that can change.  At our school it’s best practice never to tell a student that she or he is “smart” (or “stupid,” but hopefully that’s best practice in every school).  We don't frame abilities in absolute terms; we talk about them in terms of progression (and sometimes regression).  We talk about getting smarter, something every student can do.  It’s a subtle linguistic shift and a massive cultural one.  We hope it leads to a shift in mindset.

Support is perhaps the more complicated piece of the growth equation, because it can look so many different ways.  For my poetry it’s meant repeated workshops with our writing group.  It’s meant good advice from more experienced writers and poets: record yourself, practice, put it down for a week, write it over.  It’s meant reading other people's poetry.  It’s meant reading books on how to read poetry.  It’s meant sitting down once or twice a week with blank paper and a pen or a laptop.  It’s meant having paper and pens and a laptop and time.

For my students growth might mean having books at home.  It might mean getting enough sleep every night.  It might mean having a special education or a behavior plan.  Maybe it means having access social services, mental health services, or social and emotional learning.***  Or a character report card.  Or having role models.  Maybe it’s detention or suspension or a stern lecture.  Or having teachers script every single action throughout the day because students are still developing good habits (“line up, hands at your sides or in your pockets, face forward, voices off."  I used to balk at some of the culture and forms of discipline at my school, until I understood that many students actually really benefit from those kinds of supports.).  Maybe it means a hug, or five minutes in the morning with chickens.  There are about 600 students at my school, and every one of them needs several kinds of support.

My favorite form of student support.

So hey, creating an effective school is a hard thing.  It takes at least twice as many teachers and resources as most schools have.  Many supports might be out of reach.

Then there are the complicating factors: TV and stereotyping visual culture, internet, video games, junk food, peer pressure, low self-esteem, family turmoil, domestic violence, a white hetero-male dominant culture, history.  And none of these are limited to elementary school children.

So there's the capital-C Challenge: the world sometimes is icebergs and chasms and shiny, distracting things.  We can take as faith our ability to grow yet still flat line, or worse, regress.  And that's when we need to trust in growth the most.  Those icebergs and chasms and shiny things?  That is the stuff of growth.  At least it can be, provided that we have the support to overcome it, and if we choose to see it that way.

For 23 years when I faced challenges far less dramatic than icebergs - a bad grade, a disappointing track meet - I would do one of two things.  I would internalize: this failure is my fault and I need to push myself harder.  Internalizing is a great way to get better at things and while feeling really bad about yourself.  Or I would externalize: this failure has nothing to do with me so I don’t have to worry about it.  Externalizing is a great way to feel great about yourself - or at least create the image that you feel great about yourself - while never really taking responsibility for improving at anything.

I think I’m not the only person who reacts in these ways, and that’s why I think the “support” piece of growth is so crucial.  When I first began to learn about growth I understood it as "you can do anything," which didn't feel all that helpful.  When I started thinking about it as "you can do anything if…" I stopped needing to make the miserable choice between internalizing and externalizing.  

Instead, I started taking responsibility without being self-deprecating or escapist.  I started thinking things like “Hey, teaching didn’t go well today.  Tomorrow I’ll do more prep before hand, and maybe reflect on what went wrong.  But probably I should ask my co-teacher what she thinks, because teaching is hard and I shouldn’t tackle this problem alone.”

When I think of growth in terms of support, I'm more able to make distinctions between the things that are more in my control and the things that aren’t.  Usually both are involved.  I can practice a poem a hundred times, but maybe the audience is in a bad mood that night.  Maybe sometimes I’ll still be hard on myself about the things that I can control but haven’t really taken a hold of, but I’m also learning that growth can happen whether or not you beat yourself up.

~~

I'm still very new to poetry.  That beginner's phase where growth only comes in one variety: quick and easy.  As if setbacks never happen.  No doubt I'm approaching a plateau, or a cliff, but so far it's been a steady ascent.

Still, I’m nervous about my show tonight.  I haven’t fully memorized any of the poems I’ll be performing.  It could go really well.  It could totally bomb.  Despite what I’ve written here it will probably feed my ego if it runs smoothly, or I’ll get down on myself if doesn't.  I’m a poet, not a Zen master.

Either way, on Wednesday I will slouch in my living room beside other slouching, aspiring writers.  I will engrave the ass-hours onto my couch.  I will appreciate how far I've come and reflect on where I have still to go, where I will always have still to go.  I will keep my pen moving.  I will remind myself, “Hey, I am an artist.”

---

* When I talk about artists I’m speaking broadly: to me, an artist is anyone who designs something – a painting, a lesson plan, a jump shot, a dinnertime meal – deliberately, and with an eye towards mastery.

* Schools in New Orleans borrow quite a bit from the corporate world, which funds quite a bit of what’s going on nationally in school reform.  

* Thanks, Sophie!

~~

New Year's Resolutions

1. Meditate, read and write every day, even if it's just for a few minutes.
2. Give at least one compliment a day.
3. Slam a new poem every month.
4. Start every hard conversation with students with "I want you to succeed..."
5. Break up my routine once a week.  On New Year's Day I walked from my house to Lake Pontchartrain and back and figured everything out.
6. Books reports.  I always forget the things I read, so last year I wrote a couple of one-page summaries of books.  I'm a slow reader, so the least I can do is remember what little I've read.
7. More dancing.  This one is off to a great start.

Are You Listening?

On Saturday we threw a 60th birthday party for my dad at his favorite restaurant, in Brooklyn.  A couple weeks earlier he and my mom both independently asked me to perform my September 11th poem, which I felt was completely inappropriate for the occasion.  So I wrote this in secret, and debuted it between the entree and dessert.

Happy birthday, dad.  (circa December 2007)

PS - This poem contains a TRICOLON CRESCENS!!!!!!  Can you find it?!

Are You Listening?

My father is 60 going on 100

His capacity for worry

Is that of a senior citizen circling the 24-hour news cycle

Frantic

Like a hamster circling a ball

Like a balding hamster circling a ball

Like a balding hamster

Whose son only lives in places that are extremely vulnerable

To unpredictable natural disasters

Circling a ball

Dad                 

You can give me a dozen reasons why I should evacuate for a Category I hurricane

But I will never listen

When do I ever listen?

You can name your ulcer after me if it makes you feel better

My father is 60 and still learning how to use technology

A few years back he learned the difference between reply and reply all

When he sent this message to me, in reference to my first marathon:

“Susan, I don’t want to scrape Sam off the ground in some faraway city.”

Dad I proved you wrong

In fact you cheered me on

Then helped me climb up the stairs for the next three days

My father is 60 going on 23

That is to say he’s rubbing off on me

I’ve always had his ears and his voice

But now I have his astigmatism

His New Yorker subscription

His distrust of all other drivers in the tri-state area

His reluctant admiration of Jewish women

It’s called genetics, people.

My father is 60 going on 18

That’s why for the past two weeks he’s put everything down

Packed the trunk full of emergency supplies

And driven to the edges of the city

Of Long Island sound

To meet the needs of stranded and cold survivors

He said it was harder than seeing New Orleans for the first time

My father is 60 going on and on and on

Most of his sentences to his children begin with

“There was this article in the Times that…”

Or

“I heard on NPR that…”

And end with

“Are you listening to anything I’m saying?”

“Kids?  Are you listening?”

My father is 60 going on proud

He didn’t want me to stop playing baseball

When I got hit with a pitch in 3^rd grade

But not because he cared about how good I was at baseball

I think he knew I would never get good at baseball

He just wanted to raise children
Who understand that in life you will ache

And that is no reason to quit

The weekend his father died

He drove three hours to my sleepaway camp

Because all he wanted to do

Was be a dad

My father is 60 going on 61

Which, he will have you know

Does not mean he’s retired

About two years ago he told me he wanted

To get more serious about screenwriting

I didn’t listen, didn’t think he was really being serious

I told him “ok dad, just don’t quit your day job.”

And then… he… quit his day job.

But it’s alright!

He’s got a working spouse

My father is 60 going on 30 years of marriage

No simple feat          

But they’ve always made it look easy

I don’t know if their relationship was ever in doubt

But if it was thank you for hiding it from us when we were young

And if it wasn’t

Wow

My father is 60 becoming everything we need him to be

Driving mom to chemo and radiation therapy

Holding hands through news good and bad

He’s head chef, chauffeur, husband extraordinaire

Yes my father is a worrier

He’s also a rock

No, he’s a boulder

The kind you lean on in the middle of a difficult hike

The kind you would include in a landscape painting

If you wanted the viewer to feel at home

Are you listening?           

He asks

Are you listening?

Yes, dad             

I heard you explain how to put on a spare

I understand that I should read through the entire rent contract before signing

Dad I’m 17 I know what a condom is

Are you listening?

He asks

Did you remember to call your mother on her birthday?

Do you need anything from me?

Are you happy with what you’re doing?

Are you even listening?

Dad

We pretend to be independent

Children our age excel

At making parents feel irrelevant

But your kids know better

Than to ignore 60 years of wisdom

60 years going on a million

So yes,

We’re listening

Dad

We are always

Listening

Clay Pots

Thanks to whomever took this

The prose just isn't hitting the page right now.  Every time I sit down to write, I'm working on poems.  Some satire, some reflection, some catharsis.  It's a whole new form of expression that I'm sorry to have ignored for so long.

Finding a fitting metaphor is a real treat when writing poetry.  The best ones build themselves - their meanings extend outward as the writing continues, beyond the scope of what you expect them to explain.

I went through five drafts of this poem, including a full rewrite, but the metaphor did most of the hard work.  It's a piece about my relationship with my younger sister, who turned 21 in September (!?).  I sent it to her about a month after her birthday, mostly because I didn't know what I wanted it to say.  It still doesn't say most of what it should, which would sound like an extension of this:

"Hey, I know I've been a pretty difficult big brother most of your life, and I'm sorry for that.  Even though our relationship has been challenging, you're my sister and I love you."

It should not take 21 years to say that, but that's how long it took me.  Maybe I just needed to find the right way to say it.  Maybe I'll stick with this poetry thing a while longer.

Clay Pots

One of us must have been adopted

And it was probably you

Because I have dad’s voice and mom’s hazel eyes

And her brother’s brown hair

Though luckily neither of us inherited

Their unbearable senses of humor

But we both got

Grandpa’s gritty stubbornness       

As kids it was like

Two rough ceramic pots rubbing

Grinding on contact

Chipping and dulling one another

But I was older and taller

So I raised your self-esteem up over my head

And then dropped it

And not by accident.

Just to see how many shards

You’d make when you shattered

Before I learned to know my anger

Feeling bigger was all that mattered

Like when I used to call you stupid

For not knowing all 50 states

I think I teased you into learning them

Sculpting you with childish hate            

But I’m learning

That you are not ceramic

Because clay doesn’t grow stronger

Doesn’t unbreak

You are not solid and delicate

But liquid and opaque

You are not clay but ink

My mistake

Has been to think

That every time I knocked you over

You crumbled beneath your brother

But you just spilled a little bit

Then stubbornly recovered

Pouring ink

Forming blots

That from a distance

Look a little bit like courage

And a lot like persistence

And from above they look like confidence

And up close they look like art

And I

Am finally learning

How to appreciate art

I’m finally learning

To handle ink when it’s wet

That’s why this poem reads like tribute

But still tastes like regret

And it would sound like an apology

If my pen was not so weak

But at least now I’m learning

How to make ink speak

It’s been two weeks

Since you turned 21

This poem started as a gift

Though the ribbons have come undone

Like all our past attempts to change our friendship’s tack

Some bowls are made to fit

And others just don’t stack

But I’m learning

That love is not a sequence

Of broad artistic gestures

It’s not one perfect sketch

Or a collage of silk and feathers

It’s fraying leather

It’s ice sculptures melting

And then getting out the mop

It’s knowing how fast to spin the wheel

And knowing when to stop

It’s sloppy

It’s crumpled drafts and crossed-out lines

It’s chalk on a sidewalk

And pastels that dull with time

I’m learning that love

Has no design

And that’s fine

Maybe there’s no blueprint

On how to be a good big brother

But I promise

For the next 21 years

I’ll try to be less stubborn

What I Wish I Had Been Told

In May I attended my first ever poetry slam, a monthly show hosted by Slam New Orleans (who, by the way, just won the National Poetry Slam).  The show was inspiring, so much so that I decided to try my hand at it.  The following month I made my slam debut, and after that I set a goal to perform a new poem every month for the next year.  Four months later I'm still on track.

This poem is about my experience of the 11 years since the September 11th attacks.  The idea behind the poem is that I travel back in time to speak to a younger version of myself on the morning following the attacks.

Thanks for listening, and please please please offer any constructive feedback.  Transcription below.



What I wish I had been told on September 11th, 2001.

The worst nightmare is one that everyone shares
That bears its weight in the faces and backward glances of an entire city
That you escape from not by waking but by falling asleep
But this is no dream

You will witness the end of sneaking deli sandwiches into baseball games
Learn to pose crucified for intimate pat downs from impersonal hands
Prepare yourself
For red-eyed nights aboard red eye flights
And the red faces of teenage boys who want to kill the man who did this

                                              

On trips home you will ride the New York subway and notice

How people have become even more proficient at looking over their shoulders

You will gaze into the only hole on Earth that makes New Yorkers stand still

That no amount of concrete, steel, and arrogance can fill

And not for lack of trying

You will hear claims that

Today everyone is a New Yorker

And you’re going to wish it were true

Because at least then this country could put its head down, its ear buds in, and mind its own fucking business

In this new world you will ask yourself

Does it really matter if hate is in our hearts or in our actions?

Because most American Presidents have murdered more innocent people

Than Bin Laden could ever imagine

And imagine the irony

That ten years after this insurrection

We will orient our anger in the same exact direction

Lower Manhattan

And for a lot of the same reasons

Our means will be non-violent but the point is the same

There’s a culture to blame

Yet we won’t examine ourselves

But delve headfirst

Into aggressive self-denial

We’re addicted to a sense of greatness

That most of the world reviles

But what if interrupting violence doesn't start in Islamabad
But in Manhattan?

What if we demanded that our schools teach conflict resolution

So that not a single American child turned to violence as a solution?

There’s a line in the preamble of the US Constitution

That says to form a more perfect union is to promote the general welfare

That’s a challenge for us to think up our own particular ways to care

That all involve people

Small acts of love speak softly

But a million at a time can drown out the noise of evil

In this new world we’ll need to laugh at ourselves sometimes

Humility is a willingness to be your own punch line

Because if we don’t make ourselves the subjects of comedies

Then someone else will write us in as the objects of tragedies

If we don’t ask questions

Then we’re giving up on answers

If we don’t nip hate in the bud

Then it will spread like a cancer

If we’re not inspired

If we don’t light roaring bonfires

Beneath our youngest boys and girls

Then who’s going to imagine

The next new world?