Never Forget

Yesterday, my nine-year old daughter asked me, "What actually happened on 9-11?"  For many September 11th anniversaries I had provided her fairly vague responses when she asked about the memorial service at the 9-11 monument in town or the flags lining our main street.  An already anxious child, I didn't want to feed her many fears and active "worst-case scenario" imagination.  But last night, I could tell she was ready to know more.  She wanted to know the truth.  So she and I headed over to one of our favorite, most peaceful places, our community garden, so that I could tell her the story.

Thirteen years ago, I was in my second year as a high school English teacher in Westfield, New Jersey, an affluent suburb of New York City.  It was a spectacular morning.  Azure sky.  Warm sun. Bustling hallways.  My classroom was located adjacent to the main building in a portable.  Though without functioning heating or cooling systems, I loved being outside of the fray in a little pop-up structure all our own.  It was quiet, and we could learn loudly without interrupting those nearby.  This haven, though, also isolated me from the PA system and general goings-on in the world.

At 8:46 a.m. I didn't know a plane had slammed into the World Trade Center, a short twenty miles from our school.  I was introducing a unit to my eleventh graders on "The Dream and the Reality of America."  I did not know our reality was already changing.

At 9:00 a.m. the bell rang, and my students left our portable to return to the main building as did I.  I headed for hall duty.  When I passed through the side entrance, I knew something was wrong.  Students chattered urgently.  Teachers huddled in doorways.  I approached a colleague.  "What is going on?"  She told me a plane crashed into the North Tower.  I recall feeling completely disorientated.  I could not conjure an image of what that meant.  I quickly shuffled to my homeroom hall duty location, right next to the counseling office.        

At 9:07 a.m., the homeroom bell rang.  By this time the South Tower had been pummeled by Flight 175.  Our high school principal turned on the PA.  I heard him say, "It appears as if America is under some kind of attack.  A second plane has crashed into the World Trade Center."  He offered some instructions on remaining calm, but no one listened.  In the days before every teenager had a cell phone, they needed to use the main office phone to call home and check on the whereabouts of their parents.  Their aunts.  Their uncles.  Their brothers.  Their sisters.  Their cousins.  Their grandparents.  They needed to know that all those they loved who worked in downtown Manhattan were safe.  Students ran through the hallways, sprinting by dingy brown lockers and stunned faculty members, to reach the public telephone.  Some were frantic, yelling, "My mom. My mom.  My mom."  Others remained solemnly silent.        

The day continued.  At 10:45 a.m. I was handed a note at my classroom door that read "2 WTC fell."  Again, the image alluded me.  By midday I was back in the main building staring at a television screen in shock.  I tried to remember all those I knew who worked at World Trade.  Was Tricia ok in her office at 7 World Trade?  What about Mike, my college friend who just graduated from the NYC Fire Academy?  Was my student's, Willy, father on a train home or trapped in the rubble?

It was truly the most terrifying day of my life.

Days passed.  I heard good news of family and friends who were safe.  I heard awful news of those lost.  Cars remained unclaimed at the train station.  Missing posters lined city sidewalks.  Seeing the posters for a very popular, outgoing college classmate and another for a sorority sister brought me to my knees in Penn Station one afternoon a month later.

No matter how many years go by, it will always feels like no time has passed.  The terror, the disbelief that people are so evil is something I will never shake lose.  But I will also always remember how we banded together.  A region shattered by tragedy became a community bonded by resilience.

And that is what I told my daughter last night as we watched the sun set over our red ripe tomatoes and plentiful green bean plants.  I told her that awful men planes crashed into buildings.  But, I also told her that we refused to let them crush our spirit.

I will never forget.

Staying Put

Last week I closed out another school year with my department, my fourth in my current district and my eleventh as an English supervisor.  Eleven years as a supervisor.  Forty years old.  I can hardly believe it.  Where has the time gone?

During the last eleven years I have hired and worked with dozens of educators.  While many remain in the classroom, several teachers I hired are now building principals or assistant principals.  Many of my supervisory colleagues are assistant principals, principals and even superintendents.  It seems as though my administrative peers move up the education leader rapidly.  There are always dozens of administrative openings listed in the Sunday paper.  Talented people come and go within a few years.  So in this culture of constant change, I am often asked what my next career move will be.

For years I struggled with this question.  What is my next move?  When should I make it?  Frequently colleagues suggest I seek a curriculum central office position.  A few months ago my own superintendent told me he just assumes I am heading towards a curriculum director job.  When an assistant principal job opened in district this spring, rumors spread throughout the building that I was going to "get it."  I didn't even apply.

My struggle with the inquiry about my next move is not due to any need to move up in the hierarchical construct of school.  My struggle is because I just don't want to make a "next move."  I want to stay put.

People have varying reactions when I say I don't want to make another move.  Most ambitious administrators respond with an uneasy, "Oh."  Some ask, "So you're going to be an English supervisor for the next twenty years?"  Honestly, I don't know where I will be in five years much less twenty.  But I do know that I love my job.

OK, I probably have a love/hate relationship with my work right now.  My frustration rests squarely with the bureaucracy.  My state government has added so many requirements to my position that it actually makes it tough to do my job.  I spent much more time reviewing spreadsheets, rubrics and data than I did working with teachers.  However, the time I spend with teachers is, well, magic.  I love coaching them, brainstorming lessons, designing units, developing assessments, and offering feedback.  I help them integrate technology, address parent concerns, and celebrate their successes.  This year I counseled teachers through personal issues, consoled them in time of great loss, and met their wonderful families.  I delivered bad news.  I delivered really great news.  I watched teachers set and reach their professional goals.  I saw students do the same.  

This February I had a lesson plan meeting with a novice high school English teacher.  He was designing a poetry unit for his class.  For over forty minutes we discussed various teaching strategies and dozens of poets and poems.  After the teacher left the office, I had a moment to reflect.  I realized I am doing exactly what I love.  Why, then, should I be concerned with others who find it odd that I don't want to move up?  I am happy right here.  I can talk about poetry, reading and writing all day with really smart, dedicated teachers.  What's not to love?  

Maybe someday I will find myself as a curriculum director or in an English education professior.  Maybe someday I will return to the classroom full-time.  But maybe, just maybe, in twenty years I will be retiring from my position as an English supervisor.  Wherever my career takes me I know now that I must do what I love.  And despite all the legislative challenges, I still love my job.

So I am staying put.

Opting Out of Standardized Testing

Testing mayhem is in full swing here in New Jersey.  From PARCC field tests to NJASKs to End-of-Course Biology exams, we are in the midst of the standardized testing season.  These tests are stressful.  They are exhausting.  And they are misused.  As a New Jersey educator, I struggle mightily to allay the fears and pressures on my ELA teachers whose students' test scores will contribute to their summative evaluation.  As a New Jersey parent, I grow frustrated by the time spent preparing my child to take these exams and the stress it causes her.

In my role as an educator, I do not have many options other than to inform and reassure teachers.  In my role as a parent, though, I can say "no."  And that is the decision my husband and I have made this year.  My child is not taking the NJ ASK.  Her school principal has been very understanding of the decision, which I truly appreciate and respect.  I hope if you decide to opt your child out of standardized testing, your school administrators offer you the same understanding that I have received.  Below is a slightly edited version of the opt-out letter we sent to my daughter's school.    

Dear School Principal,

We are writing to inform you that we are opting our daughter out of the New Jersey Assessment of Skills and Knowledge test as is within our legal right as her parents.  Our choice to opt-out of the testing is not a reflection of our opinion about the school or the quality of education she receives there.  It is a response to our beliefs about the value of standardized testing, especially for children of such a young age.    

We do not believe the standardized testing provides any additional meaningful data about what our child knows or does not know.  Those assessment decisions are best made by the certified educators who assess her learning growth, her social development, and her well-being.  We are exasperated by the testing culture that pervades our communities and our schools.  We would rather our child spend those four mornings engaged in active learning experiences that connect her to the world in which we live, giving her the chance to explore new ideas and participate in problem-based learning opportunities rather than hunched over an exam booklet.      

Additionally, we have serious concerns about the effects that testing anxiety will have on our child (and others), especially since this pressure begins at such a young age.  While I know teachers often tell students not to worry about these tests, the frequent test preparation speaks much louder.  She has taken many tests this year to assess her skills.  We do not feel it necessary to subject her to one very lengthy, high-stakes exam that does not show us anything about her learning that we do not already know.

Our goal for our daughter's education has nothing to do with standardized test scores. We want her to love learning. We want her to find inspiration in an idea. We want her to love a book so much she can’t put it down. We want her to feel so compelled by an issue that she researches and writes about it tirelessly. We want her to see the joy and feel the challenge presented by increasingly complex numbers and data. These goals cannot be met when a state mandated standardized test is the means by which students, educators, and schools are evaluated. The tests distract parents, educators, and students from what learning should be. So, for now, we choose to honor that belief by having our child not participate in the NJ ASK.

Thank you for your time, your understanding and your consideration.

Sincerely,

Heather Rocco

Why Poetry?

This week Chris Lehman asked the #TeacherPoets community to write short reflections on "Why Poetry?"  Here is my contribution to this conversation.

We have the language to say "I love you. I miss you."  But it often feels cliche.  It doesn't capture the depth of our feelings.  So we write something like...

78th Street

I am here
without you.
So I close my eyes,
breathe --
pretend you are
standing
right there.

I think it is the breath, the silence in poems that makes poetry more powerful than the words themselves.  And we need to have a means to say all that needs to be said, though we lack the language to convey it precisely.  So we have, thank goodness, poetry.