Grow, Jeff, Grow!

When I started my teaching career, my philosophy and practice were both well-founded in the scoring systems most of us know very well. It felt like a flag salute: 90-100 = A, 80-89 = B, 70-79 = C, 60-69 = D, below 50 = F. The numbers were clean, the grades clear. Until AP Calculus happened.

Of course, we all meddled with the curve to fit the scores to something more humane. Add 5 points for your name, give everyone 12 Happy Friday points, make the test out of 85, or any other number-churning contraption we could concoct as teachers—especially math teachers.

Hearing that a 50/108 on the AP Calculus test was a passing score made similar sense. They were more precise than our unofficial ways of using our students’ numbers to mete out grades. That didn’t shake my faith one bit. I did, however, enjoy watching our shining math students struggle with the notion that 50/108 wasn’t an F.

Then it happened. 50/50.

The scores were released. All 50 of my students passed the AP Calculus exam. All 50/50 = 100% of the tests came back with a score of 3 or better on the AP Calculus AB or AP Calculus BC exam. Perfection. Apparent perfection at least.

A colleague approached me on hearing the news. Her excitement and joy couldn’t be contained as she poured out words of astonishment, excitement, and congratulations. “You’re like Jaime Escalante! Maybe they’ll make a movie about you too!!” What should have filled my tank and inspired me onward didn’t feel right. I knew that this time 50/50 wasn’t an A+.

Although happy and proud of my 50 students, I knew my roster count. Why only 50? I expected more than 50 results. What happened? Sure, some students didn’t sign up for the exam, yet others must have backed out last minute. Why? What if they took it? Would it have been 60/60? 50/60? What did 50/50 really mean?

When my department head approached me, the surge of pride welling up in me swallowed up my initial uncertainty. I couldn’t wait to hear the “Good job, Jeff” that was well deserved. Her words were perfect. She helped me clearly understand what 50/50 meant this time. We both knew it. She gave words to it.

“What about all the other students? Who did we miss?”

Our school scored around 50/375 = 13%. Of all our students enrolled, only 50 passed. Why did only 50 take the test? What about the others?

F-

Understandably, not everyone wants to take Calculus. Not everyone necessarily even needs to take AP Calculus. However, we know that almost every human is capable of learning calculus. [Note: about 1-3% of the population have severe cognitive impairments that might preclude them.] Why were so few of our students taking Calculus? How many of our students could have taken that test and passed? Why only 50/50?

“If you know that you’re on the fence and are already thinking about dropping this course, please do so now.” I stood in awe as the administrator addressed my class at the start of the year. We had too many students enrolled in AP Calculus. Too many students to fit the schedule. I wouldn’t turn any student away. I certainly wouldn’t tell students to bail out before they gave it a try. Three of our top Pre-Calculus students from the previous year dropped AP Calculus class right after the administrator’s encouragement. All were promising mathematicians. All were girls.

We were doing it. I watched it happen. We limited the access to the course.

50/50 = F-

True, we weren’t like other schools I knew where students could sign up for the AP Calculus exam only with instructor approval. We let anyone take the exam and even provided financial assistance. Nonetheless, we sorted and select in our own way. We had barriers. We were failing our students. Our actions. Our inactions. Our system.

We were failing our students.

What would you say to young teacher Jeff to help him grow?
What would you say to your younger self to help you grow?

“There can be no keener revelation of a society’s soul than the way in which it treats its children.” – Nelson Mandela

My mother returned with a gift. Somewhere in San Francisco she found something for me. Somehow between visits with doctors and hospitals with my baby sister, she bought me a kite. For me. An octopus kite.

This kite broke all the kite rules I knew. Kites were diamond shaped. Not this one. Kites need a single tail with at two or three knots, not this one. Kites have two cross bars made of light wood, forming a cross and giving solid structure to each corner. Not this kite.

Round with eight tails and no cross members, the Octopus completely challenged my grasp on kites. How would the light, thin tails do anything to prevent the wind from spinning this kite into a death spiral? No cross-members surely meant an early death for this kite. How could such a weird thing rise up into the sky? I had to know.

Curious to find out, the Octopus and I went out into the field. I tied on a new spool of fishing line and looked up to the dark spring clouds that moved briskly overhead—a perfect day to fly a kite. “You want to try and fly, Octopus? You ready?” I asked while sliding a small stick through the center of the spool of line. I was ready. The octopus laid there on the ground looking at me with its weirdly shaped eyes and flimsy tails spread out. “You ready?” I asked again as I paid out line and prepared for takeoff.

I walked away until the line became taut. Looking over my shoulder, I could see Octopus starting to move. I picked up my pace, gave a little tug, and held my guide hand as high as I could in hope to lift Octopus up out of the sea of alfalfa and into the sky. My heart leaped. It worked! This kite can fly.

The Wind picked up Octopus into the air gracefully. I was astonished. The Wind and the Octopus somehow magically connected. I gave out more line, the Wind took Octopus higher. More line. Higher and higher the Wind begged me. The more line I gave out, the higher went Octopus into the sky.

At some point I moved both hands to the stick holding the spool of line. Now free to take as much line as Octopus and Wind wanted, I watched my kite become a small dot against the massive sky. Holding the stick and carefully letting the line spool out at will, I watched Octopus rise higher and farther from me than I had ever seen or imagined.

The line screamed out faster and faster. Soon I’d feel the tug when I reached the end of the spool. Lost in the wonder of experience I never thought about this spool of line and how the end were or were not secured. It wasn’t. The line flew off the spool with no stopping knot. Octopus, now untethered, drifted high in the currents near the clouds. Unattached. Alone. Drifting.

I raced after Octopus. The Wind laughed at my efforts. Octopus, my wonderful new kite, was flying without me. I chased. I hoped that I would see Octopus returning back to the ground. I watched carefully as the small dot in the sky became smaller and farther from me. Across fields I pursued Octopus.

The Wind cared not for Little Jeff, taking Octopus far out of sight. I followed. I searched. I hoped. I crossed fields looking for Octopus. Nowhere. I went for hours following the course of the Wind. Nothing. Over miles I pursued Octopus. No answer. Gone. Forever.

Whether the weather is hot
Whether the weather is cold
We’ll weather the weather whatever the weather
Whether we like it or not.

What would you say to Little Jeff to help him grow?
What would you say to help your younger self grow?

Challenge: Write a short story about your younger self.

H.D. Everything

H.D. do everything
H.D. everything Now
Henry David don’t you know?
H.D. Everything, don’t you see? 

Everything finished
Everything clean
Everything perfect
You know what I mean

H.D. do everything
Humbly do everything

H.D. do everything
Humbly do it now
Humbly do everything
Humbly through and through
Humbly do everything
H.D. Everything now

Nearly a decade ago I started channeling Little Jeff as a consultant in my work as an educator. I would often think back to what would Little Jeff do. What would Little Jeff feel? Most importantly, what if Little Jeff were in my class with me? I’ve thought a lot about it.

Have you thought much about what it was like when you were a young learner? For me I have voices of adults that I can still hear. Sometimes I hear their exact words. “What were you thinking, you idiot!” Sometimes I hear their voice like like a drum beat driving me to do something.

I began writing to help capture those voices. I began writing from the perspective of Little Jeff, sometimes in prose and often in verse. The poem H.D. Everything captures one of many poignant messages that Little Jeff heard over and over.

What would you write about Little You?
What would our students write?

Challenge: Find a spot to sit by yourself and write nonstop for 15 minutes about Little You.

Meet Little Jeff. He loves learning. Everything.
Little Jeff works hard to learn everything he can.

What do you suppose Little Jeff is thinking as he’s flying a kite?

Little Jeff helps me a lot in my world today. We’ve been working together intentionally since 2018 to learn more about learning and ourselves. What would Little Jeff do in that circumstance? What would he feel like? What would be best to help Little Jeff grow? I channel Little Jeff’s voice often as I design, prepare for, deliver, and reflect upon my learning interactions with people of all ages. Little Jeff helps me to remember how we learn throughout life. He also reminds me to embrace my curiosity and passion for life each day—play, laugh, explore, adventure, and smile lots (especially if you’re skipping).

What would you do to help Little Jeff grow?
What would you do to help your younger self grow?

As Big Jeff, I am channeling my younger self to be better as a human and an educator. I’ll be posting here about my journey as a learner, about how I challenge my former, current, and future self to grow.

Grow, Jeff, Grow!

Challenge: Create an avatar of yourself as a little learner.