Growth Mindset for Me!

I am really trying not to hyperventilate this morning -- but I will be presenting at my first statewide conference this afternoon, and I'm trying right now to make sure EVERY LAST THING IS PERFECT.

Ok, I can breathe.

In my classroom, I coach my students through their presentations. "Just be prepared," I say. "Everything will be fine," I say. "These people like you, and they want to know you what you have to teach them."

This morning, I am trying REALLY HARD to take all that to heart. Is my presentation ready.  Um...sure. Except for a couple of things. You know, those last-minute perfectionist tweaks.

Taking deep breaths.

I've got this.

And for those of you at TAGT this week, come by at 4 p.m. today. I'll be there to talk about facilitating student leadership.

And I'll be ready.

I think.

Celebrating a Day of Play

Once again, my classroom is a wreck -- and I couldn't be happier. This all started with the video below. If you haven't heard of Caine's Arcade, you really need to watch it.

I watched this video a few years ago, then remembered it again lately when I heard about the Global Cardboard Challenge. A day of play? Creativity? Innovation? It was an activity designed for my kids.

After watching this amazing video about the power of imagination (and a little packing tape), my fourth graders went all out with their version of cardboard arcade games. For the past few weeks, they've designed, cut out, failed, redesigned, stuck with it, and created some great games.

  It may look like a pile of boxes held together with duct tape (and, well, it is), but when you get close, the detail and ingenuity really come through. One child made his own bean bags, another figured out how to harness gravity to create a working ball return. This is the type of hands-on engineering that gets kids hooked into science and math.

Fourth grade's S.A.G.E. Arcade

Next week, we've invited the entire school to come play in their Arcade. If you have a few boxes and some packing tape lying around, I encourage you to unleash your imagination (and your kids), and create your own Day of Play.

"Seeing" Writing

For my whole life, the written word has been like breathing to me. Reading and writing are something I could just do -- they made sense. 

This probably had something to do with my parents, who love to tell how they had to hide my books from my toddler self, who would insist that they read all six of them -- in order -- and who would get really, really grumpy if pages were skipped. (Yes, I am the oldest and a little spoiled.)

With this natural affinity, it's been one of my biggest challenges as a teacher to help my kids write. For a lot of people -- particularly those who are visual/spatial thinkers -- there is a huge disconnect between the stories they tell, the stories they experience, and then turning around and putting those stories on paper. 

With 80% of my students qualifying for the gifted program nonverbally, I needed to step up my game. 

So this summer, I started reading an amazing book by Betty Maxwell and Crystal Punch called Picture It! Teaching Visual-Spatial Learners. They have an abundance of tips and tricks to help visual learners connect in every subject.

I've also turned my hand to co-teaching.

Last year, I wrote about breaking through one of my student's writer's block . This led to some great conversations with our fourth-grade team (the year of the...duh duh DUH...writing test!). And as a result, we've created "Writing Workshop Wednesdays," where I'm coming in and teaching writing in a more visual/spatial way.

Our first lesson (inspired by the Maxwell/Punch book), had kids visualize an expository composition as a tree. The central idea -- like the trunk of the tree -- had to be nice and strong. The main ideas are the branches, and they come from the central idea. The details are the leaves and birds' nests and acorns that make the tree interesting. 

They drew their writing tree into their journals, then created a field of "idea flowers" -- topics that they may want to write about someday. Then they "picked" an "idea flower" and did a quick write -- trying to incorporate their central idea, at least one main idea and some great details.

It went great. EVERY student, no matter their ability level or learning style, wrote successfully.

As this year of writing continues, I'll keep sharing what we've done -- and if you have any great visual/spatial writing ideas, feel free to shoot them my way. I could use them!

An Open Letter to Brian Mendler

Dear Brian,

I heard you speak this week. You were funny, and gripping, and you spoke truth. 

You had me nodding when you talked about fairness: "Every child gets what he needs to succeed."

When you talked about privacy: "I will talk to you about your child. And only your child."

When you railed against the "everybody doing it the same way" mentality, when you ranted about behavior charts and behaviors that set kids up for failure, I nodded along. I teared up when you spoke about your fourth-grade teacher -- no kid deserves that experience, and far too many have it.

For almost five hours straight, I listened intently. And believe me, that is not something I do very easily.

You had me laughing, and in tears. But in the last 10 minutes of your presentation, you lost me. Not just gone, but completely furious.

Here's why.

You were in the middle of a riff on things you hated in schools. Teacher of the Month. Student of the Month. Things that inherently set staff and students against one another, instead of bringing them together. Ok, I get that.

"But what I really hate," you said. "What I really hate in school, are the words gifted and talented."

Every child has gifts, you said. Every child has talents. You invited the crowd to cheer and hoot and whistle.

I was dumbfounded.

How could you? How could you? A man who just spent five hours preaching "fairness" and "doing what's right for kids" and "giving kids what they need to succeed" -- how could you turn that exact same thing into a laugh line? And worse yet, for an audience of people who -- let's face it -- probably have some issues doing the fair thing in their classrooms. Why else would we be here?

I get it -- you're probably talking about the label. Gifted and talented. And believe me -- I hate that label, too. I hate it for what it implies about kids who aren't "GT." And I hate it for what it does to my students who are. Gifted and talented? What does that mean? What more do these people want from me?

I, like you, believe that every child has gifts, or talents -- something they are amazing at, or passionate about, or very special about just them. Sometimes those gifts are things schools traditionally value, and sometimes -- like your humor and public speaking -- not so much.

So, what's with my objection? Because you didn't clarify, Brian. You didn't say you hated the label, but understand the program. You didn't say that it was something created to help kids get what they need to succeed. Not all kids are created equally, Brian -- didn't you teach me that? And some are created with gifts and talents so advanced for their age that a regular classroom teacher needs help in meeting their needs.

And, unfortunately -- you know that word, the one that means "I hate that this bad thing is going to happen but I know that sometimes it will" -- unfortunately, there are some teachers who, unless that label is in place, will do nothing extra for that child. 

Gifted and Talented is not a pedestal -- it's a protection. I don't like the words either, but they're the ones we are stuck with, because they are the ones protected by law. The law in most states says if a child is identified as gifted and talented, they deserve some sort of special education to meet their needs. They deserve teachers to differentiate, to do what is necessary to help them succeed in school -- and not be bored to tears by content and material they've had under control since the first grade.

You know, to be fair.

The Power of Reflection

August is a powerful month for teachers. We've rested, we've recharged, we've "Sharpened the Saw" in 7 Habits language.

And we've reflected. (Trust me, that's what we were doing on the beach. I promise. It just looked like a nap.)

What worked? What didn't? What will I use again, and what will get chucked into the circular filing cabinet? That TpT lesson looks amazing -- ooh, and what about having my kids blog this year?

Forget spring -- August is the time for new beginnings and fresh ideas, at least in Educationland.

This process of reflecting shouldn't be left to teachers alone. It's a powerful tool, and one we need to help our kids learn to use. In fact, I name 2015-2016 the "Year of Reflection."

I'll think about it and let you know how it works out.

After my nap.

Creative Chaos

My classroom is an utter disaster area. So bad, it's giving me the heebie-jeebies. With our showcase two short weeks away, my kids are in full creation mode.

It doesn't help that two of my fifth graders have chosen to study Rube Goldberg machines for their Genius Hour projects, and have been constructing a roller-coaster like device that incorporates marble runs, dominoes, K'nex, LEGOs, Snap Circuits and cocktail umbrellas -- among other materials. I believe its purpose is to ring a bell.

I have, strewn around my room right now, a miniature physics museum for kids, a student-invented air cannon and more robots than the entire Transformer movie franchise.

Posters and tri-folds are tucked away in a corner; LEGO movie sets are hiding on high shelves (to keep kindergarten fingers away).

I have had kids begging to work on their projects at lunch, at recess, before school and after school. I promised my second-graders, who have lunch bunch tomorrow (a time set aside only once every two weeks for stories and bonding), that we'd make it a "working lunch" so they could keep typing up their research.

They are so engaged because of choice. I've already written about the LEGO robot dinosaurs. With my third through fifth graders, I've jumped on the Genius Hour bandwagon. Basically, they got to choose any topic or skill they were passionate about, then researched it to present at our GT showcase. 

I created a rubric to ensure quality projects (we've talked a lot about quality this year), and they are definitely rising to the challenge.  Will every kid finish an amazing project? Probably not -- I wish I had the key to motivating 100 percent of my kids, but I'm still learning what makes some of them tick.

Still, this year's showcase products are amazing me right now -- and we still have two more weeks to see what they come up with.

I just need to look at all that chaos, take deep breaths, and keep reminding myself of that.

Growing Storytellers

"I wrote a chapter book!"

This pronouncement, unexpected from the lips of a first-grader, made me smile. She had taken to our latest project with gusto, and had been writing on Storybird for hours.

This fantastic website was shared by a friend last year, but has really taken off with my storytelling group this semester. (For more great tech ideas, check out Cristina Popescu's blog "Think Appy Thoughts!")

Basically, the website provides the artwork, and your students pick the picture that inspires them. They can write poems, chapter books or picture books, and can even "publish" their stories to share.

The basic level of the website is free, and teachers can sign up 30 students (after that they have to pay for subscriptions). It's also safe: Teachers can moderate all stories and comments that their students make, and any stories published in the public realm are moderated by the website's team for family-friendliness.

I shared Storybird with the teachers on our campus, and the first grade teachers decided to sign their classes up. One of their students enjoyed writing so much, she authored the picture book "How to Write a Book on Storybird."

Although I'm using it in class with younger elementary students, I can see this working with kids through high school -- or even adults. 

I'm personally working on a children's chapter book right now -- it's pretty rough, but I promised my students that if they're writing, then I would, too. They love being able to see my writing take shape, and giving me suggestions on it.

Enjoy!

Curing Done-itis

For the past few months, I've been working with small groups of first and second graders, helping them to learn the ancient art of storytelling.

I call it storytelling, and not simply writing, because writing, at least in school, has been reduced all too often into a boring, drill and kill skill. Being able to turn that skill into a story, however, is an art (plus, kids are much more excited to learn "storytelling" than plain old "writing.")

I started with Mensa for Kids' storytelling packet. I turned their introduction article into a video, then played Robert Munch reading his Paper Bag Princess.

The kids were hooked.

We practiced our voices and movements, then learned about the story mountain (and I mentioned they would learn later it's called the "plot diagram.")

Finally, time for the writing. I found "Yolanda the Yarnspinner" in the Primary Education Thinking Skills books. She talks of using "colorful language" to tell a good story, encouraging kids to use words like "billowing" and "sparkles."

I turned them loose with sentence starters: "The baby cried" and "The dog barked."  

Then came what I had been afraid of.

"I'm done!" one munchkin announced, about 5 minutes into her writing. "Me, too!" another exclaimed.

I had to act fast.

"Oh, my friends," I announced in a dramatic voice. "I think you have that disease. That terrible disease."

I shook my head.

"What disease?" one asked, completely hooked.

"Done-itis," I pronounced. "You think you can rush and rush and yell 'I'm done!'"

I hammed it up. "I'm done! I'm done!" I yelled in silly voices.

They giggled.

"Do you think Robert Munch -- the guy who wrote the Paper Bag Princess -- rushed through his story and yelled 'I'm done!'"

"Noooooo," they chorused.

"Nope," I agreed. "Or do you think he wrote, and he thought about it, then wrote some more, then thought some more, then wrote again -- and finally, finally, after lots and lots of work, he leaned back, smiled and nodded, and announced, 'Yes, I am done.'"

They nodded. Yup, that's exactly what he must have done, they concluded.

"So, my friends," I asked. "Are you really done? Or do you still have more thinking to do?"

They smiled and turned back to their writing, and for another ten minutes (an eternity in a 6-year-old's world), my room was silent as eight little hands put pencil to paper. I got stories of alien mothers and snowman babies, robbers and werewolves.  Stories they were proud of. Stories they were excited to share. Stories that they knew they had put some hard thought into -- and stories that, when they were done, were really, truly done.

On the Nature of Paradigm Shifts and Control

   I am a really impatient person.
   If I see a cool idea, or a lesson that I think will work really well with my students, I want to try it RIGHT NOW.
   This has led to some spectacular successes (see the robot dinosaur).
   And some spectacular flops.
   But I keep trying, because I am not afraid of risks. I am not afraid to try something new. And sometimes, in my heart of hearts, I get really frustrated with people who are.
   That's when I have to remind myself -- often multiple times -- of what is in my circle of influence.
   It's part of Covey's 7 Habits -- your circle of concern is everything that you worry about. At work, this usually revolves around adequate differentiation for my gifted students. But I cannot walk into every teacher's classroom and demand immediate change (although I sometimes fantasize about this).

   Instead, I have to figure out what is in my circle of influence -- what can I realistically do to affect that which is in my circle of concern?
   First and foremost, I had to get involved. In her blog, Tamara Fisher wrote "If you're not at the table, then you're on the menu." So I joined committees, and leadership teams.
   This week, I got the chance to have a big impact on my circle of concern. At one of the meetings, we began talking about how to keep the momentum going for the Leader In Me on our campus. It was decided that next year, we would roll out the new "Habit 8" -- the habit about finding your voice, and your passion.
   I waited, baited breath, for a chance to speak. Because I had a COOL IDEA. One that I would love for us all to do RIGHT NOW.
   My moment came.
   "Um, have you guys heard of Genius Hour?"
   Based off of Google's 20% time for independent, autonomous projects, schools across the nation have been jumping on the Genius Hour idea. Basically, you dedicate one hour per week to independent, self-chosen research. Your students can learn about anything they might be passionate about, from robotics to fashion design to the Mona Lisa.  My third, fourth and fifth graders are all wrapped up in their Genius Hour projects (more on that next week), and I think it would be an amazing thing for our campus to implement next year.
   I'm really hoping -- fingers crossed, toes crossed, even eyes crossed -- that my suggestion takes off. Because it would lead to big change -- paradigm-shift type of change -- on our campus, and for our kids.
   But I can't control that. I can only influence, a little at a time.
   I really need Master Yoda.

Learning to Facilitate

You know you've done something right as a teacher when seven 8-year-old boys come into your room right after recess, see a stack of books and say "ooooh, research!"

My second graders have officially begun work on their LEGO robot dinosaur project. I introduced them to robotics using LEGO's WeDo robots. They took to it like little ducks to water -- or rather, like little pterosaurs to the sky.

To help the project along, I asked our librarian for any books she had on the subject. This being an elementary school, she provided us with a pile of dinosaur books. I spread them out on the table, and had planned to have the kids look at the pictures, pick out the dinosaur they wanted to build, and move on from there.

Here's where the magic happened.

First, they each grabbed a book or two, and curled up somewhere quiet. (A bookworm myself, I have lots of reading nooks around my room in the form of carpets, floor pillows and a big comfy papasan chair.) Then one of them says, "Mrs. Z, can I get some Post-its to take notes on what I'm reading?"

Well, if you must.

He passed sticky notes out to all the rest, and I set the timer for 15 minutes, figuring they'd be ready to move on after that. 

The timer went off, and a collective groan went around the room. "We need more time! Please!" 

Well, ok then.

They started to get excited about what they were reading, and began pointing it out to the other boys. "Did you know dinosaurs are still alive today? Birds are living dinosaurs!"

Then my chattiest one piped up -- "Guys! Guys! We need to be quiet, and take our notes so we can read as much as possible, and we'll share it after!" 

"Oh, yeah yeah yeah." And they settled down.

Well, alrighty then.

Seven boys. After recess. My squirlliest group every week. 

Silent. Reading. Taking notes.

Because they got to choose. They own this project in a way that makes them intrinsically motivated to do their very best on it.

Sometimes, as a teacher, your job is to teach. But sometimes, you get to learn. And today, I learned a very big lesson in facilitation. Over the last few years, I had given my boys the tools -- they knew how to take notes, and group them afterwards into categories. And they had the confidence to look at a pile of books and decide what they wanted to do with it. 

They didn't need me to be the boss today.

So I stepped back, mentally chucked my lesson plans out the window, and curled up with a dinosaur book myself.

"Did you know....?"

Sure, Guys, We Can Make a Robot Dinosaur Out of LEGOs...

   A few months ago, I was having lunch with my second graders (I do this with every GT group, every other week). 
   And I asked them, "What ideas do you have for our next project?"
   "Oooh! We should do dinosaurs!"
   "Robots!"
   "Learn to blow stuff up!"
   "Basketball -- we should learn about basketball!"
   "LEGOs! I love to make stuff with LEGOs!"
   I took a deep breath, preparing to settle them down a bit, when one of the boys (it's an all-boys group), piped up. "Guys, guys -- we can make this a win/win."
I sat back in my chair and listened as this 7-year-old negotiated a project that every single kid was on board with.
   "We can make a robot, out of LEGOs, in the shape of a dinosaur -- and it can throw a basketball!" he said. (You will notice that even the 7-year-old knew the blowing-stuff-up option was a no-go.)
   "Yeah!" "Yeah!"
   Then seven sets of big eyes turned to me. "Can we do that, Mrs. Zepeda?"
   And I was so impressed at the level of conversation, and their use of Covey's 7 Habits to listen and negotiate with each other, that I said,

   "Sure, guys, we can make a robot dinosaur out of LEGOs."

   Now, to figure out how...

Breaking Writer's Block

The week before Spring Break, I was in tears. So was one of my fourth-graders.

“Just write it! It doesn’t have to be perfect – it just has to be there,” I said, trying again – unsuccessfully – to break through his block.

“I CAN’T,” he said back. “I CAN’T put that sentence in my story. It’s BORING.”

“But it doesn’t matter,” I replied. “It doesn’t matter if it’s boring, it’d be done – and you can move on.”

“I CAN’T,” he insisted, tears leaking down his cheeks.

Frustrated, tired, heartbroken for this kid, I let it go. At least I could tell his teacher he tried, that he wanted to write – he just couldn’t get out of his own head long enough to get it on the paper.

I went home that day feeling like a failure. I had tried every trick I knew – thinking maps, foldables, graphic organizers – and they hadn’t worked.  Oh, they’d worked a bit – he had a paper, but it wasn’t finished. And it wouldn’t be. And the state test in writing was in a week.

Over dinner, I asked my husband – a high-school English teacher – for advice.

First, he called me stupid – “Not you,” he insisted. “Your approach. Don’t you think every other teacher has already told him that?”

“Ok, dear,” I said, my teeth a little gritted. “What would you do?”

He talked about sculpting, and about appreciating writing – even state-test-practice-so-boring-I-want-to-poke-my-eyes-out-with-a-spork writing – as art.

“You have to appreciate that to him, he’s making art. So you talk about art. A sculptor doesn’t make a statue right away – he has to work with the clay. Pinch it, scrape it, carve it, until it’s finally a beautiful sculpture. Writing is the same – he has to understand that he will never get the story out of his head perfectly. He has to get clay on the page, take the words out, then work with them until it’s right. But he can’t work with them until they’re on the paper – he has to put clay on the page.”

I nodded, but was skeptical. This made sense to me, but would the analogy click with a 9-year-old?

I figured I’d try, so last week – three days before the big test – I talked to my student. I talked about sculpting, and working with clay.

It was classic.

His eyes widened, his eyebrows went up. “Oooooooooh,” he said. “You’re talking about my writing.”

“What connection did you just make?” I asked (it’s best to check with GT kids – they can make some extremely…interesting…connections).

“You mean, I have to plan, then write my rough draft, then my final draft. And I can keep working on it – that it doesn’t have to be perfect right away.”

I nodded. “You’re putting clay on the page,” I said.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Clay on the page.”

Then a day later he wrote – a full page – on his own. In one sitting.

“This,” he said, after proudly marching down to my room to share, “is just my ROUGH draft.”

Eh...Maybe I'll Write This Tomorrow

Hello, folks. My name is Jennine, and I'm a procrastinator.

This is a long-standing habit, and I believe it may be genetic. I come from a family of procrastinators,  and if I had children, I'm sure I would be raising little procrastinators, too.

I once spoke to a class of middle-school-aged gifted students about procrastination, because the truth is, when you're a highly capable person, you really can get away with it -- a lot. "Look, guys, I understand leaving things until the last minute. It just can't LOOK like it was left until the last minute."

The "last-minute" and I are on rather intimate terms. He attends our birthday parties, I send him cards on Christmas (well, usually around the first of the year...or perhaps March).

I bring this up because I have not posted a single thing since November.

Oh, I've had thousands of ideas. My kids are doing amazing things in class -- building robots, creating Leprechaun Traps, even launching "Genius Hour,"....but somehow, I just could not gather the gumption to sit down and write about them.

I could make excuses, and some of them may even be legit. But the honest truth is I did not set a deadline, I did not have anybody to hold me accountable, and even though this blog is a personal Wildly Important Goal -- without accountability, it's a goal that just didn't happen.

So today, I am setting a deadline: Every Saturday, I will post some fun, creative or interesting ideas for teachers. There. It's official -- I can't back out now.

I may be writing late Friday night (or even in the wee hours of Saturday morning), but it will be on time, every time. On my honor as a procrastinator.