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?