The Monolith in the Room

I remember the first day I stepped into room 310 as a student teacher at West Philadelphia High School in October of 1993. Mrs. Merrill's room was neat, clean,  and tidy, but not sterile. There were neat rows of desks pointing at the front chalkboard and her teacher desk. I remember the knot  I felt in my stomach, looking at the room full of guardedly respectful students as they were informed that I would be their student teacher for a few months.

My knots were not solely because of the daunting task of teaching for the first time. It was the rows and rows of students. All summer I had read pedagogy articles about the tyranny of the middle. The fiction of the middle. The top students and the bottom students being left behind because teachers try to teach to the imaginary middle. That wasn't what was bugging me either.

The kids loved Mrs. Merrill. She had been teaching over 20 years at the time, always at West. She was a respected faculty member and community leader. Students knew they were in a welcoming place of high expectations and they did their best to rise to her benchmarks of success. The climate was something I feared disrupting with my "neophytisms" and outside baggage. I was entering urban education, but I grew up in the suburbs. That wasn't what was wrong, though.

I came to teaching from coaching. Bowling. Believe it or not, a year before I started the application process to grad school, I had an epiphany. I hated my cubicle-hell job. I had a degree in English that was not being used and I LOVED working with adolescents so much that I coached 3 youth league sessions each Saturday. I even volunteered to run clinics on Fridays and I even took it upon myself to buy equipment for students from financially struggling families. I coached each student according to his or her needs and according to their readiness to learn what I had to teach them. My gut rebelled to the monolith in the room that day.

I remember interviewing with Jim Larkin, the director of Teacher Education at UPENN's Graduate School of Education. He was brusk, imposing, and intense. He didn't intimidate me, I went to military school and was educated by Viet Nam vets who always gave you the feeling they were only a tick shy of going postal.

"What makes you think you can teach?" he demanded.

 "Sir, if I'm half the teacher I am a coach, my kids will be lucky to have me." I replied staring him dead in the eye-- and I meant it.

That first year of coaching, three of my teams won their local title in their divisions and advanced to win their district and regional titles. They each placed at states and my boys A team won the title. I knew I was good --- call it cocky, confident or convicted of accomplishment based upon performance data, but I was confident enough to hold my ground to a battle-hardened veteran urban educator turned ivy league administrator. I received my acceptance letter the next week.

The rows made the front of the room feel like a stage or, more aptly, a dais. The rows seemed like an audience, not a classroom. I knew I wanted to move the desks out of rows. I wanted to know my students as a room full of individuals with individual needs. How would I broach my need to divide and conquer to an established veteran?

It was nearly a non- issue. Carol Merrill was amazing. She let me try nearly every crazy idea I had and I grew under her mentorship. She gave me my launch. Twenty school year openings later, I'm still in the blackboard jungle. I am still finding new sources of inspiration to keep me fired up and fresh for a new year.

I am not just waxing nostalgic this afternoon. I am remembering why I do what I do and why I need to do more of it. Last week, I was data-mining preliminary testing data from studyisland.com, as a "homework" assignment from our principal, Mr. Terch. What I discovered shocked me. I had fallen trap to the oldest trick to play on a teacher. I believed the label on my classes: one honors class, and four college prep classes. 

If these labels were supposed to accurately identify the students in my classroom, then there was going to have to be a massive rescheduling project to get the kids where they "belonged." There were CP kids who aced the reading benchmark and honors students who completely bombed it. 

If I had only looked at the scores, I would have been horrified and marched into Mr. T's doorway to advocate multiple schedule changes but that was a very small part of the results that surprised me. My classes are the farthest from being homogeneous in ability groupings. The basic and below basic overall scores of my students don't tell the whole story--- some student's strengths are over 90% in one area but they bombed in other ways.

After 20 years, I have some pretty good solutions to these deficits, but I have been wondering the past few days how I can teach and remediate simultaneously.  Nearly one click and my mind came to the conclusion-- the only way students will achieve success, and learn at a pace that is consistent with their readiness, is to completely remodel what English class looks like in my classroom. The solution? Differentiated instruction, based upon the needs indicated by the first benchmark of the year and other preliminary data available to me so far.

My classroom is already physically set for the change. We have tables and no desks-- perfect for flexible grouping, collaborative learning, and micro-managing.

Now for rethinking lesson-planning. Large group lessons will  not serve the needs of my students. According to their benchmark scores and the first two writing samples I have read, their needs are all over the map, so I must teach like I coach bowling--- each according to his or her needs. I know what to do-- I have done it before and met with success, but back then, I only had to turn in a calendar to my supervisor. Fortunately, I have friends that have El Ed and Special Ed backgrounds-- they know how to write this up so that a supervisor knows what he or she is looking at when they come to visit and observe.

Today, we learned about our new responsibilities for the PA Teacher Effectiveness rating system we are now entering. I am a little overwhelmed, but I am more excited than anything. I can't teach a big block in the middle of my room but I can teach a room full of individuals. That's my goal in 2013-14. Tune in to see how it's going.

For every season, vert, vers, vert...

If you're a linguist, one of my students, or one of my students's parents you will get today's title. Vers and vert are the Latin roots that mean turn. As I travelled up the hallways to my duty period I mused at a change I made to my pedagogy. Students have written me, over the years, thanking me for teaching them Latin and root etymologies. I have also read and heard a lot about the efficacy of chunking information. There's also been instruction to teachers about considering going a mile deep and only an inch across.

All of that pedagogical discourse made me re-examine somthing in my practice that I considered "working." -- my delivery of instruction. For nearly 20 years, it has been my inclination to explore and exhaust the curriculum expediently. After all, the state testing is always in the spring, so we must get all the eligible content in before then, right?

I wasn't so sure that was a good idea anymore, so I conducted a year-long experiment with my students. They did not know it until today, but I had been teaching them significantly differently than I had in the past. I used to go through all the Latin and Greek root words in the span of one marking period. Each day would be a new root with 10-15 examples, and once I had 15 into their notebook, I would proceed to drill and kill in preparation for the test. Students actually wrote me years later to thank me for that???

This year, I talked over my idea with my learning support teammate and decided that it would be better to use one root word per week and give one example each day. Repitition, recall, relate--- repeat. The idea was that, yeah, I could give the kids extensive tests at the end of each 15 word chunk, but how much of an enduring understanding am I building in the former model? Even when a kid memorizes brilliantly and achieves perfection, how many of these tools will she remember three years from now when she needs it most on her SAT reading comprehension test?

Today, after students completed their scholastic reading inventory tests, I gave them a crossword puzzle that included all thirty Latin root word definitions. In the puzzle, students had to  write in the correct root words. My old teacher's heart was warmed by what I witnessed. Students did remember. Students flipped through their notebooks remembering when they had first encountered the root words. I let students work in pairs or groups, each according to their comfort level. The level of engagement I witnessed is what made my day brighten. Students engaged in discourse of not only what the words meant but also how they knew they had the right answer or when they remembered learning the roots.

No where was this more evident than with my Honors English students. They were nearly giddy with enthusiasm. I have results to my first reservation-- students do remember more for a greater period of time when spend an extended period of time with new information. My second querry is harder to answer. How do all of my students to that level of enthusiasm for their learning?

Group work seemed to go a long way to achieving the goal. Students became more competitive when they were attacking the goal--- finish the crossword before the bell so that all can learn the answers. For a formative assessment, I conducted root relays in class. I broke the class into five parts. Each group had a designated spot to answer their questions from and each student had the opportunity to earn points for thier team. When a teammate provided an incorrect ansewer, they were eliminated from thegame. When all members were eliminated, the sole remaining team became the winner. Students were focused on the win, I was focused on their learning.

This is the season where I begin to look back at the year and forwards to next year. The less is more approach is working for vocabulary but reading needs tweaking. I am researching how to enable online journalling or something similar to a tweet--- a chance for students to daily respond in  a sinple paragraph (2-3 sentences) about the quote of the day or if they didn't want to write about the quote, they could tweet about what is happening in their choice- novel. If every student in my room has a device or laptop, students would be able to see the posts or tweets and repond to them real tiome.

Actually, I do marvel

Sixth period has been a hard nut to crack. For the first three marking periods, the words I would use to describe the culture of the class would be unsettling: zombie-fabulous, lethargic, passive-aggressive, or  blah. They are my first class after lunch and that might account for some of their lackluster enthusiasm for class--- were their stomachs taxing all their energy ny digesting their high carbohydrate menus? The answer lay in their comments however: "Are we going to have fun in class today?" "Why can't we play a game?"

Fun? So my dazzling personality and student-centered lessons weren't fun enough?? I tried not to be offended. This group is also my smallest class: a whopping eleven students. The words I used in the previous paragraph no longer aptly describe the culture of these students. I credit the addition of a genuine live-wire to our class, but I also see that, during this last marking period, the class actually appears to be enjoying the our time together.

In this marking period, we have used fewer individual assessments and more group assessment opportunities:  a literature circle and a drama group project. The reults make me think I need a paradigm shift. When I was teaching the "eligible content" the first three marking periods: grammar, etymology, formal writing domains--- EVERY assessment, formative and summative, was individual. I missed out on tapping into my students' group dynamics.

Watching these guys at work is both interesting and entertaing. They slammed two tables together to have a "family meeting" about their upcoming production. The eleven elected to combine as one large group to produce a 4 minute scene from one of the five drama plays we read last month. The leaders rose to the occasion and policed the group. Group members were interrogated about the status of their job performance: "You do have props right?" They policed each other: "Stop being a dingus and pay attention!" and they attempted to motivate: "We've got two days--- settle down!" They were more on each other's case than I ever could hope to be--- micromanaging each distraction or individual distractor.

I do marvel. The energy that was lacking for thirty weeks has transferred to composing their last writing pieces. Students seemed more willing to write, give authentic feedback, and participate in fruitful and constructive discussions about revising than at any other time this year--- not bad for eigth-grade-itus. Students gave genuine praise to those who were deserving instead of just to those that they liked.

I'm basically talking about synergy. Team cohesion. With the year almost over, their transformation gives me pause. This group suffered from being as small as it was. I didn't do as many small group formative assessments because class often consisted of eight or nine students during cold and flu season. I drilled them to sleep.

This marking period, they are my most open and cooperative group. I am really looking forward to seeing their twenty-first century version of a scene from A Midsummer's Night Dream. I need to talk with my principal about taking pictures to share with the blog: legal concerns etc--- it's going to be a hoot. The script sounds good from their rehearsals and that kids are generally excited about costumes.

Dumb stuff makes this teacher smile--- like seeing a class finally come together after months of feeling disconnected.

That's my story. I'm sticking to it.

...and That's Funny How?

"You're acting like an overweight black woman from the south!"

Seriously?  Yep- that's just one of the "funny" things my students are saying to each other  in class. Compound that with students who argue with each other over whether such comments are offensive and you have Spring Fever 2013. For the most part, these comments are not mean-spirited, but I know first hand, that they are still hurtful to those who hear it.

When I moved to the Tidewater, Virginia region that January in 1980, I was in seventh grade. I was still shell-shocked by the epic 1978 mini-series, Roots. Moving to the southeastern seaboard after seeing that, was the last thing I wanted to do. It was a bad move: full of spirit-crushing bullying. I went to military for 8th and 9th grade.

When I returned, no one but my closest friend remembered me, that was a good thing. High school was a fairly seamless transition from military school. Maybe it was because I was miserable in a military setting of endless regimentation and no arts and maybe it was because I was pleased to spend my extra-curricular and elective time in music. Unlike the junior high debacle, I found making friends a pretty easy exercise, but that's where the problems that relate to the beginning of this blog arose.

I returned to public school during the 1982-1983 school year. The Civil Rights victories of the  1960s were not even 20 years cold. This may account for the awkward situations I found myself in those years. Whereas at Western Branch Junior High School I found myself a pariah: yankee, upper middle-class, articulate and an avid learner; in high school I experienced overwhelming acceptance. I also found myself a niche' of similarly inclined outsiders. We called ourselves the import club because we were all from somewhere other than Tidewater.

These friendships in high school and even at the military acadamy had their pitfalls, however. Let me flip it and reverse where I am going with this: some of my best friends were biggots. Don't think that's possible? I wouldn't believe it if I had not experienced it.

In polite society, one should avoid talking about finances, religion, and politics, right?--- didn't most of us learn that from our moms? However, when you befirend someone, you start feeling each other out on these issues. That's where the comment comes from.

My friends would gleefully come to me to share a great joke they heard since the last time they last saw me. First, there were the black, white and red all over jokes: skunks in a blender-- but as I got older they turned darker. Jokes about blacks from my white southern friends.

When they saw I was offended, they would assure me "We don't mean you--- you're different." As if that was supposed to make me feel better about them finding humor in impugning members of my race with their stereotypes. What did they mean "different?" And then the other kicker "yeah, but you don't really act or talk black, you're more like us." Act black? Talk black?

I wish I could take the 46 year old version of me and teleport into the teen me. There are things I would say-- no, cussing a blue streak isn't on my mind. My friends were operating under stereotypes that were so entrenched that even our friendship could not dispel them.

Acting black? I don't need to act a color. I am the descendant of African slaves who  kidnapped and shipped to the New World, --some as many as three centuries ago. The comment was a reference to my diction and elocution. Our home lives were similar. Both of our parents were college-educated and expected us to succeed in our studies, go to college, and become productive members of our communities. This meant that my folks were just as anti-slang, anti-regional dialect as theirs were. No one in my family spoke ebonics.

The same could not be said for many of my African American classmates at WBHS. I also was one of three African American students enrolled in advanced, honors, and accelerated classes-- where I met many of these friends. My school had a 60/40 white to black ratio demographic and there were well over 450 students in my graduating class alone.

For many of my friends, I would learn over the years, I was their first or only black friend. We played on sports teams together, hang at each other's houses playing video games, watched movies, crammed for tests, even visited each other's places of worship on a few occassions. We were friends, but since I lived in their neighborhood, was in their "hard classes," and did not live up to what they had grown up was true of "those people" I was "other," and like them.

I was offended by their jokes. It did not matter to me that they were not talking about me. They could have been talking about cousins who acted out a culture that they only had a cursory understanding of. This was decades before I would teach a course at the College of New Jersey called "Race, Class, and Gender," where we learn the socio-polical history of these assumptions and their economic, political, and educational rammifications.

When I hear these things. I cringe, I question, I try to gently educate. I believe it serves no purpose, as an educator, to react like a school-nun who overhears blasphemy. I try to get my point across subtlely.

Navigating these murky waters of human relationships impacted upon by racial, religious, and ideological differences has been part of my life story. I lived in white neighborhoods and predominantly white school districts most of my life. Most of my black friends that I had growing up, were relatives whom I only saw when I travelled to my grandparents' homes in Ohio. Many of my cousins had the same life experience because they were also born to college-educated, upwardly mobile and achieving parents. That was our family identity.

My paternal grandfather, a mason contractor, noticed that folks with college degrees struggled significantly less during the Great Depression than those who did not. He made sure all seven of his children went to college in the 1940s and 1950s.

The student who said the opening lines of today's blog? He is an avid reader who reads well above grade level. I gave him a choice of Having Our Say, Black Boy, and Selected Stories of Edgar Allen Poe to read during PSSAs. He devoured Poe and Wright. When he finished Black Boy, he came to me before homeroom to talk to me about it.

"I had no idea things were like that back then..." I looked at him.

"Do you understand why I had an issue with what you said to her?"

"Oh God! Yeah! Geez... I'm sorry." I hope I smiled gently, I was relieved he seemed to get it.

"Not everything is funny just because you think it is. Know what I mean?"

"Yeah."

"Cool."

That's it. No need for a write-up or call home. Other teachers were aware of what happened because other students immediately realized that  he should not have "gone there" in front of me. My point-- no one should go there, regardless of in front of whom.

I'm caught in the middle. I understand when to pounce and when to wait for a teachable moment. I'm an educator, not a thought policeman. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Forever Is A Pretty Long Time

My Grandma Bailey used to often say to me that you don't have to worry about the folks that talk to themselves, only the ones who answer themselves. If that is true, then I guess folks are going to have to worry about me.

I visited my page and noticed I had not posted in two weeks, and, although there is plenty that has happened since then that I could write about, what should  I write about?  Immediately the problems with portfolio assessment popped into my mind. I heard myself thinking: "Grading those things took forever." Then a voice answered back: "Forever is a very long time." See? Time to worry...

Anyway, last marking period, instead of an end of the unit test and essay, I assigned a portfolio project for the poetry unit. Students were offered various modes to show what they learned in the project: lessons, reflections, original poems, explanations of the poems and, of course, the dreaded compare and contrast essay. When I added up all the points for each section, the assessment accounted for 110 total points. No pressure.

To keep the grading organized, I created a live, self-marking, assessment tool, through Excel. Even with a computer program aiding me, grading these alternative assessments took weeks to grade. That is why I am giving another portfolio project, but this one will be a group project.

The problem with group projects is avoiding one person to be saddled with the majority of the work. Why? 30 projects are easier to grade than 105. Yet, group projects offer even more challenges to the assessor. How do you balance between group and indivnual accountability? How do you prevent one student from having to do all the work?

Monitoring helps. If you're out of your seat observing, listening, and interacting with the groups, it becomes clear who has read and  is pulling their own weight. The slacking student is also easy to recognize if you are closely monitoring. This is the time of the year when the good-natured ogre rears his head. Those who are not doing their daily work are oftened removed from the group and have to complete the project as an individual project. This way, the group is not penalized because they have one or more group members who won't work.

The best part? Grading these things won't take me forever.

Showing Up

Last night was a great experience in my Lancaster Challenge League at Leisure Lanes. I swept all three of my matches and two of my wins were within very narrow margins. I won my first match 206:180, my second match 215:211 and my last match 210:209. The first two matches were satisfying because when I am playing on tough scoring conditions, a win is a win. Yet I was irritated with myself because I had an opportunity, in each of the two matches, to help my team win the team totals point, but each time I threw shots errant enough to keep from striking.

The last match however, reignited me. I showed up. I had been leading by 15 pins most of the match, but in the ninth frame I was a little off-balance and missed the pocket completely. I left a nasty washout: 1-2-4-6-10. I figured I just blew my match. My opponent also failed to strike in the foundation frame, but at least he only had a pesky 10pin to convert into a spare. For my part, my spare attempt was a disaster, I underestimated my ball reaction on the spare and ended up only mowing down the 1-2-4. My total after 9 frames: 180.

Then it was time for my opponent to convert his ten pin. He missed. His score in the ninth: also 180. As anchor, the scenario brewing at this point was the potential need to triple in order to win my individual along with the team point. Bowlers live for pressure situations like this one. I prefer to go first in these situations because I like to get in the head of my opponent with a solid strike.

No luck, my opponent's teammate finished before mine, so he was able to set the tone for the final frame. I have learned not to look at my opponent's shot in these situations. I had no need to know whether he struck or not. I had no need to see whether he had a lucky hit or not. My goal was clear-- triple and he can't win. So I turned my back to him and wiped dust off my bowling sole with my crying towel. The sound was unmistakably a strike, but I disciplined myself not to look at him or the score.

In pressure situations like these, I have learned to concentrate on what I could control and think in positives only. Every coach and athlete knows that though the brain may understand negatives,  the body does not. My mantra in these situations (stop snickering, I do have one): Breathe. Head level. Chest high. Let the ball throw my arm. The result? A thunderous strike destroryed the rack.

He got up for his next shot. did not look at my opponents, the team, or the score.  I jumped to the approach as soon as he took his first step, got a bead on my target. Breathe. Head level. (I could tell it was another strike from the sound of the impact, but it was muted by the silent chant of my mantra. God helps those who help themselves. My mantra, my prayer, steady my body Lord, I can do the rest.) Chest high. Let the ball throw my arm. Bam! Another solid strike.

He lead the charge into the third bonus ball. Again, not looking, I recognized the sound, tinny and unimpressive, probably a flat ten pin. I didn't know. I noted his teammates' condoling encouragement, but I would not look at his score or his lane. I didn't want to know. "Just execute." I could feel my balance slip a little into the delivery so I rotated it harder at the release.  Bang. Strike three.

Mission accomplished. I won the match. I showed up. The adrenaline rush was awesome. Slowly, my game was coming back. After nearly 2 years of fighting through rehab of a replaced ACL and resurfaced minisci in my sliding leg, the player I know I was, and still am, is returning. Vindication. Affirmation. It turns out that, not only did I win all three individual points, but I also posted the third high series for the night in our league.

Finally, I was able to do in league what I try to do each day in class: show up. It's not about attendance, its about being present, living in the moment, and showing you can be counted upon. That is when the richness of our profession fills me up. There is nothing like the feeling of "I did that," and the that was helping a kid be successful, not just helping the team win a match. Priceless. I imagine my satisfaction in living a purposeful life is much the same as my father's when his five patents for television designed were approved and GE implemented them immediately into production. This is my vocation. Selfishly, I stay in it because I love knowing that what I do in my classroom matters, not just for today but also into the future. Every decision I consciously and unconsciously make is preidcated upon that one conviction.

This week I was presented with a reading problem from a concerned parent. We just started literature circles and her child was having extreme difficulty reading one chapter. After reading the parent e-mail, I took the time to call the student over and ask him about how his reading was going. After talking a while, it was clear to me that  he needed to hear the words.

The problem brought me back to my old days as a reading teacher in NJ. That school had an extensive audio library, nearly every book taught in our classes was available as an audio book. The student softened when he finally realized I was trying to help him. Today, he came to class feeling accomplished because using the read-aloud strategy enabled him to do his homework without a hitch. It's taken three marking periods for the student to get that I'm a teacher, and not an ogre or disciplinarian. For me, there is no comparison to seeing a closed, frustrated face open to you, ready to learn. I fight internally daily to be present for my students, to be ready when they are ready to let down their defenses and let me teach them. I fight being influenced by frustrations generated by the other stuff.

My dad told me when I was a teen, "Boy, if you never want to work a day in your life, do something you love. You won't believe they're paying you to do it." It took me three different career paths to find that job and this is it. He also admonished me "There is [stuff] you will have to deal with in every job, but that [stuff] won't matter so much when you're doing what you're supposed to be doing." There is stuff, plenty of it, I try not to get overwhelmed by it. I remember church ladies on Sunday mornings in my grandmother's church testifying how they would not let evil steal their joy. I don't let stuff steal mine. I am present. When I stop being able to be present, I will stop teaching.

...bet you didn't think I'd be able to take a successful bowling night and bring it back to teaching, did you?

Black History Month

"Soul and race are private dominions." - Michael S. Harper, "A Love Supreme"

I few yawns ago in history, the world was flat. A couple blinks ago, teaching the accomplishments and contributions of non-whites and women to American history, culture, and science was a novel idea. The world is not flat-- everyone knows it-- we have satelites orbiting our lop-sided Big Blue Marble proving that.  Non-black children gleefully make their elders uncomfortable "spitting" n-word laden lyrics with their earbuds planted in their ears, trying to match the meter, rhythm, and passion of the mc on their ipods and mp3 players. Affirmative action is under serious scrutiny by the US Supreme Court this year, and I even have adults asking my why there isn't a national white history month, or why can't we take elective courses in white history.

Memo to my educational peers: we have lost our way. I integrated suburban schools in the 1970s, colleges in the 1980s and am still integrating as an established teacher. I didn't like being singled out, however benevolently and affectionately, by revered and trusted teachers when they pointed out all the things I was first at, by virtue of the color of my skin. I resented being pressured into joining the Black Student Union in college (there were less than 20 blacks on a campus with just shy of 1800 students).  I was extremely uncomfortable with being drafted to head up the African American Club in my first teaching gig. -- not only was I pressured into accepting a leadership role with the club, but I also had to submit to monthly 7am meetings with the district African American Parents Network to report my actions, future and past, with the group: welcome to first year teaching, fun.

All of these experiences have led me to a practice that I don't think is that radical. I don't explicitly teach an African American History month unit or even a lesson. Rather, I consciously select every variety of vegetable availabe to thow in my salad bowl of curricular reading materials: white, black, Latino, indigenous peoples, Asian, males, females, etc.. Discussions of race only come up when the subject matter leads us there. For example, when we read an excerpt from Maya Angelou's I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, the events were about segregation, prejudice, respect, and pride. We connected back to SE Hinton's That Was Then, This Is Now and the civil rights video we viewed to supplement the civil rights era race conflict in the story.

I was a student when the only black writer we heard about was Dr. King. I also remember that the library had books about others-- I retreated to the library often and read everything the school had about people who looked like me-- their accomplishments, their writings, their stories, their dreams. I also read everything the library had about vampires, bowling, ghosts, vulcanoes, and monster movies. I try to remember not to be myopic when I teach, because students have multiple interests and passions. I also try to remember it's not the 1970s and that my current 8th graders were born between 1997 and 1999. They not only don't understand the 20th century, they don't remember it.

However, I am not ready to say it is time to retire "the months" -- Black History Month, Women's History Month. Why? Not everyone is committed to, or adept at, making their curricular materials inclusive of the human condition. On the other hand, when people are genuinely asking me why there is no White History Month, it becomes clear that in the zeal towards inclusivity, we have alienated others to the point that they don't notice the reason for the inclusion in the first place. How many national holidays have been enacted to honor the accomplishments and contributions of an American woman, a Native American, Latino? Do you know who Lewis Lattimer was, or why he comes to mind as I sit in an artificially lit room blogging to you?

History has its name for a reason: "his" + "story."  Some history educators point out that history is written by those who won, won the war, won the credit... Besides Madame Curie, see if you can rattle off 7 women who profoundly impacted the world we live in today. Besides George Washington Carver, Malcom X, and Martin Luther King, can you list 5 African Americans that you learned about in school? Besides Chief Joseph and Chief Crazy Horse, can you list 5 Native Americans that you learned about in school before college? Who was Cesar Chavez and what impact did he have upon US Labor policy? What did the Coolie Act have to do with fair labor practices in the West and why were the Irish immigrants of the 19th century threatened by Chinese immigrants? Until our students know the story of our nation and can rattle off answers with the same speed that they can tell about the Mayflower, Continental Congress, and The Revolutionary War, we are probably still going to need to teach a segregated history that is out of context and anachronistic.

Along the way, let's not turn students off.