Where Will They Go?

The past few weeks have likely been nothing short of a whirlwind for thousands of new teachers across our country beginning what has the potential to be an amazing career. They’ve headed into new schools carrying a sense of enthusiasm that will be tough for us oldtimers to match!

I always love watching new teachers, because despite having to work far harder than expected, they’re typically one big smile — proudly wearing school colors, carefully writing on boards, and often changing their desk arrangements time and again. They won’t sleep for days due to a wicked combination of emotions and excitement, but welcoming students for the first time makes everything worthwhile.

Yet despite all of this effort and energy, statistics show that more than 30% of these new teachers will be gone within three years, and 50% will be gone within five.

The numbers are shocking to some. It’s hard to imagine the same excited, energetic, new faces losing their smiles so quickly. But those of us who have survived in this field are not surprised. We understand how incredibly demanding this profession really is — and we’ve seen new teachers leave over and over again.

What should be shocking are the costs attached to such significant turnover. America’s schools spend $2.6 billion every year to address teacher attrition. But the costs are more than just economic.

Teaching is not a profession that most can master while in college, and knowledge of content is not enough to make one “highly qualified.” Accomplished teachers have a deep understanding of the ways that students learn content and the ability to present lessons using varied instructional approaches. Developing this craft knowledge takes significant time and experience.

Every year that teachers put under their belt is critical. Over time, they become more adept and efficient at addressing learning disabilities and tailoring instruction to meet the needs of increasingly diverse student populations.

Over time, they become more confident and comfortable with their own strengths and weaknesses. Over time, they move beyond the walls of their own classrooms and influence instruction across their schools and districts.

Over time.

The challenge in developing veteran, qualified teachers is that the clock starts ticking from day one. Each school day brings barriers that can seem insurmountable to that new teacher, and dissatisfaction can set in before expertise can develop. Often working in isolation, novice practitioners end up feeling frustrated and alone.

Then a more experienced peer takes the time to reach out, lending support and encouragement. Mentoring either formally or informally, they share what they’ve learned, learn as they share, and make teaching seem slightly more manageable. Retention really isn’t a complicated puzzle.

It just relies on our ability to show compassion to — and concern for — our newest colleagues.

Trailblazers stand at the edge

I’ve been thinking about mentoring lately — primarily because I’m just not the mentoring type! I’m rough around the edges and impatient, which is a quick two strikes against me. On top of that, I often get lost in my own thoughts and overlook others easily.

Definitely strike three.

Feeling a bit like an outsider (shouldn’t every accomplished teacher support novice peers?), I’ve been struggling to redefine mentoring. “I support mid-career teachers,” I explain. “They need advice and guidance too! And what about all the writing I do. Doesn’t that count as mentoring? Someone out there has to be learning from me!”

After fumbling around for a few weeks, I turned to my Teacher Leaders Network colleagues for help in determining whether I could call myself a mentor. David Cohen — a peer in California — answered first:

No, Bill, I don't see you as one of my mentors...yet. When I start coming to you with my problems and challenges and we get personal, then you're a mentor. When you know what's happening in my teaching and you start proactively guiding, supporting, questioning, then you're a mentor. Likewise, I don't think you're mentoring any non-teachers unless you're supporting them in overall practice and improvement.

Are you a leader? Yes.

David left me thinking because I’ve never seen "leading" and "mentoring" as unique forms of professional expression before. I’ve always been trapped by the idea that mentoring and leadership are synonymous.

The line between leading and mentoring seems to be delineated by relationships. The best mentors value shared experiences with protégés as a tangible product and a source of satisfaction. Most of my leadership, on the other hand, stands independent of relationships. I'm driven by ideas — and willing to make my thinking transparent to others — but I’m not concerned about whether people follow me.

So which role is more important?

According to noted educational leader Phil Schlechty, neither!

To Schlechty (1993), I’m a "trailblazer," standing on the cutting edge of education and willing to move forward despite the lack of convincing evidence that I will succeed. Trailblazers operate on personal convictions. Their passion and purpose creates cognitive dissonance in a schoolhouse, forcing others to rethink what works best for students.

But trailblazers are often isolated individuals disconnected from the group. The work of trailblazers, Schlechty argues, must be supported by pioneers. Pioneers are teachers who recognize a need to move forward, but remain motivated by supporting peers. A willingness to invest in others and a belief that the progress of the group is the greatest determinant of success make pioneers natural mentors.

I'd guess that most people drawn to teaching are pioneers. After all, mentoring is a part of what we do with students each day. But it’s equally important for a school to celebrate the work of trailblazers. To do otherwise is to undervalue the work of motivated — yet often isolated — agents of change.

Who are the pioneers and trailblazers in your building?

References

Schlechty, P.C. (1993). On the frontier of school reform with trailblazers, pioneers, and settlers. Journal of Staff Development, Fall 1993.

Keys to a learning community

I got an e-mail not long ago from a buddy working as an assistant principal in California middle school. “Hey Bill,” he asked, “We’re thinking about starting this PLC thing. Have you got any advice for us?”

Mark’s question isn’t unique, is it? After all, many schools have begun to embrace the concepts behind learning communities in the past decade with remarkable results. Teachers working collaboratively and focusing on student achievement are identifying instructional practices that work and rediscovering a sense of professional empowerment that is nothing short of rewarding.

But, just as often, schools seem to struggle with the transition to professional learning communities. Teachers trained in isolation resist collegial work or are overwhelmed by new tasks they are poorly prepared to handle. Administrators interested in immediate results implement top-down decisions instead of waiting for change driven from within — and before long, well-intentioned efforts are abandoned.

So what’s the difference? What key factors are essential to ensuring that professional collaboration takes hold in a building?

First, school leaders must recognize that collaboration is a complex process that teachers may initially struggle to master. Early meetings are often messy affairs as learning teams structure their work with one another. Personality conflicts are likely to arise and consensus may be hard to come by.

School leaders can support novice teams by providing specific, achievable tasks to tackle. Consider asking your teachers to develop a common assessment together or to create a list of essential questions that students should master before the end of a semester — and then celebrate the products that are created. Teachers need to feel successful in their early collaborative efforts in order to continue moving forward.

But school leaders must also recognize that sometimes the PLC process is more important than any product from an individual team. Schools often put so much attention on outcomes that we undervalue the work that leads to tangible results. This tendency tempts principals to require that learning teams always complete tasks from lesson planning to grade reporting in predefined ways.

The consequences of such constant control are relatively extreme. While teachers are likely to “follow the rules” — and may even believe that administrators have made their work easier by specifying outcomes — critical conversations about teaching and learning are lost. Educators move from being experts wrestling together with content and curriculum to blue-collar workers investing little mental energy into automated assignments.

In many ways, the learning teams in your building are a lot like the students in your classrooms. They are unique and take great pride in their individual identities. At times, they’ll have every tool they need to be successful, and at other times, they’ll need more support than you’d ever expect.

Your goal — just like a good teacher — should be to differentiate the support that you offer, helping each learning team to develop into self-sustaining, thoughtful, and accomplished groups that are passionate about their work together.

Sounds easy, right?

Accountability Lights a Fuse

It finally happened. I suffered my first legitimate ‘accountability breakdown’ the other day after our school’s academically gifted teacher stopped by my room. “I need you to sign a few papers, Bill,” she said, “verifying that you are going to provide a differentiated curriculum for your AG students.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, I’ve been signing similar papers for 15 years. Essentially, each document details the level of service that my kids are entitled to receive. They’re designed simply as a reminder of the importance of meeting the needs of the gifted students in my classes.

Instead, they simply set me off!

“I’m sick of being held accountable,” I snapped. “Do you have to sign any forms documenting your work? Better yet, do teachers beyond reading and math have to sign these papers? What guarantees are we getting on the results of everyone else working in this building?”

No joke — I was borderline hateful and definitely mean.

As our AG teacher beat a hasty retreat, I was left to vent to anyone who would listen. My frustration was only fueled by a comment made earlier in the year by a district data guru suggesting that the teachers of my team were “decidedly average” and “somewhat complacent” when it came to reading instruction. His evidence: Our school’s standardized test scores.

“That’s it!” I shouted, “I want any one of the dozens of untested positions in our school. Wouldn’t it be nice to have no accountability for once?!”

Picking up the pieces after my outburst has made me realize that our nation’s efforts to “hold teachers accountable” have changed who I am as an educator. Once a passionate artist driven by human relationships and by creative exploration with my kids, I am now nothing more than a technician studying the numbers and trying to produce results on end-of-grade exams.

Constant pressure and criticism — a tool that society has seemed to embrace to drive change in education — has left me wondering whether I even want to work in a classroom any longer. At every turn, fingers seem to point at me because I teach a tested subject. Each year, I pensively await the results of exams knowing that drops in “the numbers” will land me in hot water — no matter how hard I worked the year before.

Some days, I’m even left to wonder whether what I do each day can really be called “teaching.” It certainly doesn’t resemble the work that I embraced early in my career.

Is my reaction to our nation’s emphasis on results somehow irrational or perfectly understandable? Have ‘accountability breakdowns’ become more common in your school? How can school leaders support teachers who rest under the never-ending glare of end of grade exams?

Are ‘accountability breakdowns’ another unintended consequence of No Child Left Behind? If so, are they a consequence that we’re comfortable with? How can we hold teachers accountable for performance without destroying who they are as people?

Preparing Children for a Tape-Deck Tomorrow

My 1995 Ford Taurus — nicknamed Turk 182 — is nothing short of Superbad! I picked up the Turk when my last car caught on fire a few years back. I had my flaming wreck towed to the nearest dealership, told a salesman to dig up the cheapest car on the lot, and bought a battleaxe!

You'll admire the utilitarian flavor of the Turk. The front seats are broken in perfectly — and as long as you don't mind unidentified food stains, you'll have the time of your life riding with me. My tape deck is also impressive, even if the only tape I own is by the Eurythmics. Push locks and crank windows complete my ride…and throw my younger cousins for a loop. "Where are the power windows?" they ask. "At the end of your arms," I reply, "They're called hands."

No matter how much friends make fun of my car, I resist trading it in. The Turk may not be whiz-bang compared to leather-seat sporting, DVD playing, keyless entering vehicles, but it's reliable times ten. It starts every morning and is of absolutely no interest to thieves. Sweet dreams are definitely made of this!

I got to thinking recently that experienced teachers are a lot like my Ford Taurus. We’re ultra-reliable, taking students from point A to point B without much recognition — and just like the Taurus, we’ve been American workhorses forever. Pull us out of the fleet and millions will struggle.

But in a world racing towards a rapidly changing future, workhorses need some spit-and-polish to keep up! We're not preparing kids for a tape-deck tomorrow anymore. Instructional practices have to change — and they have to change fast — in order to ensure that students are ready to succeed in a world without boundaries.

And successful change depends on collaboration. Teachers must collectively engage in powerful conversations, reading professional literature and incorporating new findings into our planning. We must study student data to determine if our efforts have been successful — and value contention, which challenges us to find a defensible consensus.

Yet we remain isolated and reluctant, relying on a collection of comfortable lessons that are rarely questioned. Without outside review, there is modest room for growth and no encouragement to refine our practice. This just isn't good enough — and I'm often left to wonder how to drive change while respecting the reliable.

Do teachers need additional time or professional development before investing effort into innovation? Are we poorly prepared for a collaborative workplace by stagnant undergraduate programs? Will centuries of isolation prevent the non-traditional thinking necessary for redefining education?

Don't get me wrong — I love my Ford Taurus as much as I love my favorite instructional practices. Like trusted friends, both are incredibly comfortable. But someday, my Taurus is going to quit on me. And when I step into Turk 2.0, I’ll probably kick myself for not replacing the ol' girl sooner!

The same regret fills me each time I see teachers turn away from collaborative work with colleagues.

Her question blew me away

One of the defining moments in my career came when I was teaching a remarkable group of 5th graders — the kind of class that teachers dream of. Discipline was a nonissue because my kids cared about learning and admired me. The connections were undeniable — and resulted in unparalleled learning.

I grew particularly close to a boy named Mark, who had also been my student as a 3rd grader. Mark was an athletic boy — a custom fit for a teacher like me. The personal connection we shared translated into incredible academic success. Towards the end of the year, Mark’s mom asked for a conference. “I want to review where he stands so that I can keep him moving forward,” she said. “After all, he’s not going to have Mr. Ferriter anymore!”

Together, we remembered two years worth of shared experiences and student growth. I spent nearly 40 minutes highlighting Mark’s strengths in reading and writing — an area where he had made great strides. I’d seen him learn to add voice to his work and to structure pieces logically. He’d mastered punctuation and was beginning to experiment with compound and complex sentences. When he read, he could make connections and ask questions that reflected a deep understanding of text. Books were never far from the corner of his desk, and stories were never far from his mind.

Near the end of our conversation, Mark’s mom blew me away by asking, “That’s all great, Mr. Ferriter, but what does the end-of-grade test say?”

I was instantly hurt because her question cheapened the countless hours I had invested into her child. My expertise had been set aside in favor of the results of a single multiple choice exam. Not wanting to ruin a rewarding relationship, I pulled out Mark’s scores and reviewed them with her carefully.

She left satisfied, knowing that her child was making extraordinary strides — and I was left to wonder about the role that testing should play in defining student success.

You see, what Mark’s mom didn’t know was that the standardized test only covered a narrow slice of the required curriculum. What she also didn’t realize was that unpredictable patterns of physiological development often resulted in wild performance swings on standardized tests from year to year.

She probably didn’t know that four points represented average growth on an exam whose standard measurement error was three points. She also wouldn’t have known that students given the chance to take the test again often saw changes in their scores of between 6 and 12 points — calling into question the scores of children tested only once.

But in the end, that score was what mattered to Mark’s mom. To her, it was the most reliable indicator of performance.

As a career educator, that left me to wonder how we’d gotten to the point where the judgment of classroom teachers is less valuable than standardized test scores. More importantly, it left me to wonder how we can ever earn professional credibility back again.

What’s Your Expiration Date?

My wife Elizabeth is a wonderful woman — but in many ways, we’re the pure definition of opposites attract. She loves to stay up late and I’m an “early-to-bed” kind of guy. She’s reserved and polite, while I’m loud and obnoxious! She loves a clean and tidy bedroom, while my clothes are strewn from one corner to another.

One of our greatest differences surrounds our attitudes towards expiration dates on food. Like many guys, I’ll literally eat anything and rarely do expiration dates even cross my mind. My wife, on the other hand, looks over expiration dates religiously — and simply refuses to eat anything “past-its-prime.” We’ve had countless afternoon meals interrupted by emergency trips to the grocery store for new bottles of ketchup in the history of our marriage!

On a recent trip to replace some dinner rolls that were a bit crunchy around the edges, I got a call from an assistant principal friend of mine who has been urging me to move into a new role beyond the classroom for years now. “I heard that there’s an opening in central office,” Parry said, “Are you planning to apply?”

“Never!” I responded, “You leave the classroom only when you can’t hack it anymore — Those kinds of jobs are where teachers go to die!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Parry pushed back. “There’s tons of great work being done beyond the classroom. A new position might just allow you to see education from a broader perspective if you ever bothered to look. In many ways, you’ve limited your influence and your own professional growth by staying a teacher, Bill.”

Frustrated and starving, I hung up — but I haven’t stopped thinking about expiration dates ever since!

You see, much of what I think makes me unique as a teacher leader is that I haven’t left the classroom yet. Selfishly — and somewhat arrogantly — I cringe when professionals who haven’t worked directly with students for decades describe themselves as teacher leaders. “When was the last time they actually taught?” I sarcastically wonder. “They’re clearly beyond their expiration dates!”

But even though I’m somewhat hung up on the idea that being a practicing teacher brings a measure of freshness to my work as a leader, I also recognize that there are far more opportunities to be a difference-maker beyond my classroom than there are in it. Influential decisions affecting thousands of kids are made by those filling the instructional leadership roles that I’ve consistently turned away from.

So I guess what I’m left to wonder is when does distance from the classroom decrease a teacher’s credibility? Do your skills drift almost immediately? After one year? Five years? Ten years? Does your credibility with colleagues ever completely expire?

How can teachers extend their “shelf-life,” holding on to a legitimate understanding of what it means to be a classroom teacher after stepping into leadership roles beyond the classroom? What actions can accomplished educators take to remain master practitioners when they are no longer practicing?