Everyone Makes Mistakes (So Why Can't I?)

First, a trip down memory lane:

I made a terrible, awful, horrible mistake on Friday. I was working with a student, reviewing his paper for citations, and I overheard another student saying something awful. One of those things that takes me to a very angry place very quickly. I responded without thinking and I yelled at him. Loudly. I just. . . snapped. And when the student tried to explain, I was still too upset to let him finish what he was saying.

Thing is, I misheard him. He'd said nothing like what I thought he'd said. I yelled at a student, and made him feel awful, for doing exactly nothing wrong. And the guilt is eating me up.

As soon as I realized what a horrible, terrible mistake I made, I apologized. Profusely. And the student, very graciously, accepted my apology. I don't think any long-term damage was done to our relationship. But still, it's eating me up.

This is not, by any means, the first mistake I've made while teaching. Not the first mistake I've made this year. Probably not even the first mistake I made that day (and it probably also wasn't the last).

I've been thinking a lot this year about resiliency and reflection and how to make students more comfortable with mistakes. I've always believed that learning is a messy process in which failure is inherent; most days I take the Red Queen's approach to impossible things and apply it to mistakes. I try to think of myself as someone who can make a mistake, admit it, fix the problem, and move on. I admit that I've sometimes had difficulty empathizing with students who hit (what seems to me) a small roadblock and completely shut down.

And so, in light of this encounter, I've been thinking about how we think about mistakes--whether a mistake is something you DO, as opposed to a mistake being something you ARE. And whether there are some mistakes that hit a little harder at our core.

As long time readers of this blog (or people who know me personally--hi Mom!) know, I work at a school for students with learning disabilities. Sadly, many of my students come to our school having been badly abused by the educational system; they've been treated as if their difficulty with learning--and the mistakes they make as a result of that--says something about who they are as people. And it's not a nice thing.

I pride myself on my ability to build relationships with students, to talk to them about difficult subjects, to guide them through a subject (whether that's the Battle of Gettysburg or the use of respectful language), and to do some calmly and rationally. Which is, I think, why this mistake is hitting me so hard. It hits much closer to my self-perception than using the wrong keywords for searching.

I know, ultimately, that this mistake is not all that defines me as a teacher, but it's been a good reminder of how debilitating a mistake can seem. It is helping me get a better understanding of how my students feel when they make a mistake while learning. When a mistake seems to be about who you are as a person, it's hard to simply move on. I still don't know how to help students with this process, but I feel better equipped to empathize with them as they move through the process.

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P.S. If you have found your way here from the Salem Library Blog awards, welcome! And thank you! I'm overwhelmed and flattered to even be on such a list.

Summer Reading; or, It’s Not About the Books

Today, I held my first-ever Summer Reading Book Fair. Also, Seth Godin said something about libraries. At the beginning of the day, I did not think these two events would be related, but I wouldn’t be true to my English major roots if I wasn’t able to draw connections between seemingly unrelated events.

I announced the Summer Reading list during a all-school assembly last Friday (and this year the video played with sound, which was exciting) :

You can see my entire Summer Reading webpage here: Summer Reading 2011
(Have I ever mentioned that Summer Reading is one of my favorite parts of my job? If not, I’m mentioning it now. If I have, I’m mentioning it again.)

formanlibrary - summerreading2011 via kwout

This year I’m working with our local independent bookstore to help students order the books they want to read and have them before they go home for the summer. And so I organized a Summer Reading book fair where students could come check out the books on the list and get help deciding which books they might want to read.

Eighteen students showed up--and I know 18 doesn’t sound like a lot, but trust me, it is. My school only has approximately 180 students, and about 50 of those are seniors. Which means about 14% of the students who will be participating in the Summer Reading program showed up (unless I’m doing the math wrong, which is possible, but I’m generally pretty good at percentages).

But more than the number of students who showed up, it was which students showed up. There were a lot of students there who not self-identify as avid readers--or even as readers. But they came and they wanted to know about the books. Some spent very little time, but several spent a long time--asking questions, debating between different books, and sometimes demanding I tell them which book they’d like better. One student came with his own personal short list of books he’d come up with after reviewing the list on the website. And students were talking with one another--recommending books and deciding on which books they both should read.

And this all got me thinking about Seth Godin’s post and Buffy Hamilton's amazing response to it and the bits and pieces of discussion I was able to follow on Twitter today.

The book fair was not a success because I had the books on display, or had computers set up for students to look up more info on the books, or because there was a Google form embedded on the page for me to gather feedback from students. It was a success because it brought people together in a particular time and space to talk about and get excited about books and reading.

If librarianship, in your mind, is about things (whether those things be books or computers or e-readers or the next shiny new toy), you’re doing it wrong. Librarianship is about people, and it’s about ideas, and it’s about bringing ideas and people together.

I admit to not having been as fully immersed as I am used to being (and would usually like to be) in the larger professional conversations that are happening lately; part of it is the time of year and the many projects I have going on, and part of it is that some of these discussions suck the energy right out of me, and I need all the energy I can hold on to in order to work on all these projects.

I know how important those larger conversations are, but they do often happen in an echo chamber where we argue about the trees while those outside are unaware of the forest (to brutally mix a metaphor). As Melissa Corey very eloquently pointed out, the changes we’re talking about need to be happening everywhere, not just in some libraries. But these changes do happen one library at a time. And right now I’m focusing on making those changes in my library.

I know that the teachers I work with have a different ideas about libraries and librarians after working with me. And I know the students I work with have different ideas about libraries and librarians after working with me. Everything I do is about changing expectations about what librarians can do and what libraries can be. And it’s not about the books, or the computers, or the physical space I work in. It’s about connections. It’s about people.

Then and Now

On September 11, 2001 I was alerted to the news by the phone. I was living in DC at the time, and my friend and roommate (who worked a block from the White House) called. She called several times, as I was still unemployed and not exactly a morning person. If I remember correctly, she left a message on the answering machine (yes, answering machine. Not voice mail.) My other room mate and I got up and turned on the TV; a TV that had an antenna made mostly from coat hanger and foil.

On May 1st, 2011 I was also alerted to the news by my phone. I was about to go to bed when I checked my Twitter feed and saw someone saying something about the President making an announcement at 10:30. So I turned on my TV (which is probably older than the TV I had in 2001, but is connected to cable). Throughout the evening I kept checking Twitter and Facebook while flipping channels for different coverage.

Ten years ago I turned to my friends to hug them and cry and wonder what was happening and fear for the future. We dialed family and friends over and over till we could finally get through. We talked to neighbors we hardly knew.

Last night I tweeted, "Almost 10 yrs ago I was unable to turn away from the news and feeling like I didn't know what to think. This feels like that, but different." I was alone, but still able to turn to others for conversation.

Ten years ago we did not go online to get information. We still had dial-up, and it was hard enough to get through on the phone lines to friends and family.

Last night I was on Twitter and Facebook and Wikipedia and CNN.com and NYTimes.com and myriad other sites looking for information.

Ten years ago I sat on my couch, with my arms wrapped around my knees, trying to figure out was happening and wondering what the larger implications for the world were.

Last night I sat on my couch, with my arms wrapped around my knees, trying to figure out was happening and wondering what the larger implications for the world were.

The technology has changed, but the emotions are the same. The channels for getting information are different, but the need for information is the same.

I am not the expert

I’ve been trying to catch up on my GoogleReader and Instapaper links (still to tackle--my Diigo Unread items. I love that technology has created a variety of ways for me to keep track of what I’m missing), so if you’ve been staying current these stories might be old to you (and, full disclosure, I started writing this post almost a week ago. You don’t even want to see how behind I am on doing my dishes).

There have been a few posts I’ve read that have really resonated with me as I try and keep my head above water in the craziness of spring research season

The first is Seth Godin’s post Moving beyond teachers and bosses:

If you view the people you work with as coaches, and your job as a platform, it can transform what you do each day, starting right now.

I have a friend and colleague who I talk with a lot about the idea of coaching, particularly when it comes to working with students with executive functioning issues; she is way better versed in these topics than I am, and I’ve been working on incorporating her ideas into what I do.

A lot of students--and not just those with executive functioning challenges--see the teacher as the “gatekeeper,” the person who says “stop” or “go” (sidenote: every time I use the word “gatekeeper” I think of the movie Ghostbusters. Just FYI). I sometimes get frustrated with students who won’t or can’t take the next step in an assignment without first getting clearance from someone else, but then I remember that a lot of schooling trains students to not trust their own judgment about what’s right, what’s wrong, and what comes next. It’s a hard habit to break. So even though I know “what comes next” I try to make that a collaborative discussion with the student, to have the answer come from them. You would be amazed (or not) at how much resistance students put up to the idea that they might be in charge of the next step of the process. We (and by “we” I probably don’t mean “you”) train students to believe that they can’t make decisions about their learning, and then get frustrated when they refuse to take charge of their own learning. Why they aren’t more annoyed with us I don’t know.

Next I read Doug Johnson’s excellent response to Godin’s post; the reactions in comments about content expertise are also very interesting, but I think focusing on defining who the content expert is kind of misses the point.

It’s not about who the content expert is. No ONE is the content expert. EVERYONE is the content expert.

Learning communities are wholes that are greater than the sum of their parts. It doesn’t matter how much you know unless you have someone to share it with--someone who wants to know, and will ask you questions, and will push you farther in your own learning.

It’s not about the information, it’s about what you can DO with the information. Knowing a lot of facts does not make you an expert. If all you have to offer your students is a list of facts, you are not a teacher. You are an encyclopedia set. Probably an outdated one.

My professional goal is to make myself obsolete. Okay, not really, but kind of. If I, as the librarian, am seen as “the only one” who knows about finding sources, evaluating information, creating citations, creative commons and fair use (and so on) then not only am I overwhelmed with trying to teach everything to every student on my own (and not having it reinforced in the classroom), but then students see it as a specialized, localized skill--something you only have to do in the library or when Ms. K-M asks. But if it’s something that’s happening in all classes all the time and being practiced and reinforced by teachers, then it’s a “real” skill.

One of the reasons I love being a librarian so much is because I teach skills, not content. And the skills I need to know and be able to teach are always changing (which is why I don’t think I’ll ever really be obsolete). I learn from colleagues in other libraries (through blogs, and Twitter, and professional journals, and conference presentations and you get the idea), and share with colleagues in my school, who share with their students, who share with each other. . . and who sometimes discover something new to share with me. And then I share that with my learning community. If I didn’t think it would delay this post even longer, I would draw some sort of diagram to illustrate this idea.

The structure that Godin alludes to (and that I think many picture when they picture schools or workplaces) is strictly hierarchical, with the “expert” at the top. But expertise is, I believe, more of an iterative process; if you believe you’re the expert, at the top of the hierarchy, you cut yourself off from the opportunity to learn from others. An expert is not someone who has learned a lot, but someone who is always learning.

I love that moment when something clicks for a student--when they figure out how to do something, whether it’s navigate an advanced search, organize resources, or create a way to showcase a new understanding of a topic. And often these are things I know how to do and could easily have shown them, but if I simply lead through the steps all they’ve learned is that I, their teacher, knows how to do something. When we give students the opportunity--and responsibility--to develop their own expertise, we are making them active participants in their learning.

Silence in the library

I have not been doing much writing lately, not because I have not had things I wanted to write about, but mostly because I have not had (or made) the time for reflection; writing, for me, is often how I bring clarity to and organize my thoughts. And while I have a lot of ideas bouncing around my brain (and it does sometimes quite literally feels like they're bouncing around), spring is also the busy season in the library, so between that and several other side projects going on, there's very little time to sit and reflect and write.

One of the projects I've been occupied with is helping students organize our Day of Silence, which we held on Thursday (the national Day of Silence was Friday, but we had parent-teacher conferences). I had five classes that day, so staying completely silent myself was not a realistic option, but I instead chose to stay silent during the optional speaking portions of my day--between classes, lunch, etc. (though I was not perfect on that count, I did try. Talking is a hard habit to break).

When working with students who were staying silent, I usually stayed silent myself. And while I don't think this is usually the best way to work with students all the time, just staying quiet while working with a student definitely has its advantages.

There is value in pausing both before asking a question, and before answering one. If a silent student had a question, they would usually take more time on their own to figure out what to do next, rather than asking right away. I work with a lot of students who, at the first hint of uncertainty, ask for help. And while I'm glad they ask for help rather than give up, it's also gratifying to see them take the few moments of extra time and figure out the answer for themselves. The silence seemed to create a permission to pause.

I also ended up taking more time to answer, and by staying silent there was less temptation to just give the answer--I really needed to guide (and point and gesture) students to where they were going. I know we all know the importance of giving time for students to answer questions, but I hadn't thought as much about giving myself time to answer questions. Taking time and how we use and organize our time has been on my mind lately as I read and think about executive functioning (more on that later as I wrap my head around some ideas).

My library can be a noisy, active place (particularly when there are multiple classes in here doing research), but with so many students staying silent on Thursday, it was a much quieter space--even though it was quite crowded. And while I love the activity and bustle of students working and being noisy, the relative quiet created an environment where it was possible for students to immerse themselves in what they were doing with little interruption. I have always thought of school libraries as a place for both collaboration and contemplation; unfortunately the physical layout of my space makes it difficult for both types of spaces to exist at the same time, and it was nice to have a day where the focus was more on contemplation.

Many students talked about how hard it was to be quiet all day, and even though I wasn't silent all day, I understood what they were talking about. I have, as I mentioned above, been feeling kind of disjointed lately, with no time to be quiet and reflect. Finally having that time (even in short bursts) was kind of unsettling. When I had a new thought or idea I had to just. . . sit with it, rather than sharing it immediately. And while it was challenging--and sometimes frustrating--it was also a nice change of pace.

I also thought about the ways we communicate without talking. By staying silent we do lose out on the opportunity to share our ideas and develop new ideas collaboratively, but I believe we also gain a lot by focusing so much on what others are communicating non-verbally. The words students took the time and effort to write carried more weight. I also had to tune in more carefully to hints like posture and facial expression to let me know how a student was doing. There are a lot of things our students tell us without words, things that matter as much if not more than the words they use.

And outside of the implications for teaching and learning, there was a lot I got out of the day. Forty-one students participated, almost a quarter of the student body, and many more showed their support in different ways. My first year here (which was not that long ago), one student participated. It's hard for me to put into words how powerful that was, and to listen to students reflect on the experience.

It has me thinking a lot about how, on an ongoing basis, we can create that silent space, the space to listen, and the space to have your voice heard.

I get knocked down, but I get up again

Apologies in advance to anyone who now has that Chumbawamba song stuck in your head; if it’s any consolation, you’re not alone.

Several weeks ago I was working with a student who had quite vocally declared that he was “done” with research. He’d hit a few roadblocks early in the process (he wasn’t connecting to his topic, as a result was having a hard time finding articles, was frustrated with citations, etc.) and had just decided to give up. As I kept trying to encourage him to stick with it, change topics, etc., he also made it quite clear that he felt like I was “picking on him.” I was coming at it from as many angles as I could think of, but nothing seemed to be working.

That encounter (along with many others) got me thinking again about resilience, a topic never far from my mind. I’m always trying to figure out ways to make my students more resilient in the research process. And as much as I know you can’t make somebody be something, I know that it’s possible to create environments in which it’s possible for students to develop these skills.

A crucial part of that process is, I believe, using formative assessments, which I do, but I don’t do enough. It’s hard when I’m not part of the day-to-day classes, and each teacher has different routine that they use, and levels of collaboration vary, but I know those are not particularly good excuses. So as I look ahead to spring research, I’m also looking at more ways to incorporate formative assessments into the research process.

This goes hand-in-hand, of course, with the issue of making students comfortable with failure that I’ve been struggling with. Many of my students see any roadblocks as a permanent state of fact, rather than as a temporary setback. In large part that's because this is what they have been taught to believe about themselves for years--that any failure is a reflection on them, not a reflection of the inherently messy and difficult process of learning.

Which of course makes me think of this excellent TED video, which is about remaking math classes, but I think there’s a solid argument that we need to do away with the paint-by-numbers coursework Meyer talks about in ALL of our courses.


Learning is messy--the learning I’ve done since leaving formal schooling is far messier than anything I did in school, and I am sometimes frustrated that my formal education mostly focused on finding the answer rather than creating good questions (with some notable exceptions, of course).

Luckily, I am a fairly resilient person. “I don’t know” is a starting point rather than a stopping point for me. And that’s part of the challenge for me, and I think for many other teachers; we are drawn to teaching because we are “good at school”--we like learning, and even if things don’t come easily to use, we like working at it. How do you teach a skill--like resilience--when you’re not sure how you learned it yourself?

But I need to figure out something, because it’s crucial to success. A friend posted this article from Wired, and while the researchers identified grit as the quality that's key to success, I think a solid argument can be made that the Venn diagram of how resilience and grit overlap pretty much looks like a circle (if you, like me, would prefer it if more of your world was explained via Venn diagram, I highly recommend thisisindexed).

The paper (which I haven’t read yet) referred to in this article focused on competitors in the Scripps National Spelling Bee, and came to the conclusion that grittier competitors (as Lehrer defines it, “those with grit are more single-minded about their goals – they tend to get obsessed with certain activities – and also more likely to persist in the face of struggle and failure.”) fare better.

That “persistence in the face of struggle and failure” is the bit that really resonated with me. I can help students identify and connect with what they’re interested in and passionate about--but how do I help them stick with it through the ups and downs? After all, frustration and struggle are pretty integral parts of the learning process.

And then another friend posted this article: The Right Way to Respond to Failure. I’d need to quote the entire thing in order to do it justice, so you should just go read it.

The crucial role of empathy really resonated with me; when I’m frustrated (with a project, with a colleague, with a seemingly unsolvable problem) more often than not I don’t want someone offering up possible solutions--I want someone with a sympathetic ear who will let me vent and acknowledge my frustration as legitimate.

Which brings me back to the student I was talking about at the beginning (remember him?). The real breakthrough with him happened when I joked with him that as soon as I was done picking on him, I was going to go pick on all his friends about the work they needed to be doing. It was like a light bulb went off for him as he realized that EVERYONE was struggling and frustrated--and getting “picked on” by me. It suddenly became clear to him that the frustrations of research were not unique to him--they were a part of the process that everyone was experiencing.

This kid did a complete 180. He changed topics to something he was really passionate about, and needed no prodding from that point on. When I offered corrections to his citations, he made them without complaint. He was well ahead on note taking and synthesizing information--and cheerfully so.

Now, my interaction with this student is not indicative of how these things usually go, but I took a powerful lesson from it.

I believe that empathy is important--crucial, really--to helping students become resilient. We need to acknowledge that their frustrations are real and valid. But beyond that, we need to help them broaden their perspective--to look around and see that the roadblocks they’re running up against exist for everyone.

In doing that, maybe we can help them develop a little empathy for their peers, and a little resilience of their own.

The Word (and what it means)

This is not, technically, library-related, but it’s been occupying a fair amount of my brain space and I wanted to share.

A couple weeks ago, at the end of evening study hall, I was in the library finishing up working with a student; another student, his friend, was waiting for him. The friend was, I think, coming downstairs and banged his knee on the banister.

And then proceeded to call the banister a fag.

Which, yes, makes no sense, but the ridiculousness of what he said came a distant second to my shock that he had said it at all.

This was a good kid. A nice kid. A thoughtful kid. Not a kid who I thought I would *ever* hear say that word. Immediately, my heart sank. And anger rose.

In the moment I was angry and upset (and already feeling kind of fried), and I knew I was going to either tell him to leave, or scream at him. And I knew I didn’t want to scream at him, so I said, “You need to leave right now. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

I could tell by the look on his face that he knew he’d crossed a big line with me, and that I was upset. It became even more clear 20 minutes later, when I got his apology e-mail. I thanked him for his apology, and we set a time to talk the following day.

When he showed up the next day I wasn’t sure how the conversation would go; I’ve tried to talk to students before about how hurtful that word can be and its loaded history. Those conversations have mostly been less than productive.

But that was not the case this time; he came to the conversations both genuinely apologetic and genuinely curious about why I’d been so upset when he said that word. While we were talking he said, “If a kid’s my age and he’s gay, it doesn’t make any difference to me. If he’s open about it I have even more respect for him, ‘cause it means he has confidence.” And that’s when I knew--and I told him--that what he’d said the night before was a mistake, and that what he’d just said was far more of a reflection of who he really was.

He also shared that one of the reasons the word had been in his head at all was because he’d been around another student who had been using the word a lot--which, as a friend pointed out, is another compelling reason to address every instance of bullying language; every time a student says it, another student hears it. And becomes that much more likely to repeat it.

Since then I have had an ongoing discussion with this student about language and its use. Our conversations have been wide-ranging; every time he finds out something new about humanity’s less than-perfect-record in dealing with difference (burning heretics, the history of the KKK, the origins of the pink triangle) he pinches the bridge of his nose and looks kind of exasperated with the human race. I find myself wanting to protect him from finding out about the existence of the Westboro Baptist Church; I don’t want him to think any less of people.

A couple days later he came to me with another question--if a faggot was a bundle of sticks, how on earth had it come to be a derogatory term for gay men? Most kids who know that faggot meant bundle of sticks try to use that as a “get out of jail free” card when they get called out for using that word (“What’s the big deal? I was just calling him a bundle of sticks.”), but he instead wanted to know more about the history of the word. So we found out more. *

The next day he wanted to talk again; now that he knew more about the word, and his attention had been called to it, he said he was hearing it everywhere. And it was pissing him off. And while it doesn’t make me happy that he’s hearing it a lot, it does make me happy that it bothers him enough to want to do something about it. He’s inspired me to re-double my efforts around working with faculty and implementing a Safe Zone program. And as much as I think it’s important for faculty to address anti-LGBT language (and bullying or harassing language of any kind), the fact is most of that happens out of earshot of teachers; if we want it to stop, we need kids like this who feel fired up about responding to it themselves.

Based on all of these conversations, he decided to write a paper for his English class on the history of the word fag, and its misuse. He--a student who does not generally enjoy writing--sat down and easily wrote over two pages. As he told me, he feels that now that he knows the real meaning of the word it’s up to him to educate other people.

There is, of course, an obvious lesson here about how students are motivated by topics that they have an authentic interest in. But we all already know that’s true (we all know that, right?).

There is also the lesson about the importance of education, and the value in having honest conversations about difficult issues (we all know that, too, right?).

The bigger lesson, for me, is this:

For all we hear about this generation having no manners, or being disrespectful;
As much as we sometimes worry about the future, and who will shape it;
As much as we bemoan the decline of civility in our culture;
And as much as I sometimes feel like I’m banging my head against a brick wall when I try to talk with students about being more thoughtful in how they talk about other people.

I look at this kid and think: We’re going to be just fine.

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*From GLSEN:
During the European Inquisitions, "faggot" referred to the sticks used to set fires for burning heretics, or people who opposed the teachings of the Catholic Church. Heretics were required to gather bundles of sticks ("faggots") and carry them to the fire that was being built for them.
Heretics who changed their beliefs to avoid being killed were forced to wear a "faggot" design embroidered on their sleeve, to show everyone that they had opposed the Church. Since it was hard to live with such a bad reputation, people began to use the word "faggot" to refer to anything that was considered to be a burden or difficult to bear. Unfortunately, the term quickly became a sexist insult, as people used it to disrespect women in the same way the term "ball and chain" is used today.
The word "faggot" appeared in the United States during the early 20th century. It was used to refer to men who were seen as less masculine than people believed they should be. During the course of the 20th century, the word "faggot" became the slur most commonly used to abuse gay men and men perceived to be gay. In fact, "faggot" has become a general insult that is often used to humiliate any men. Since many people are biased against LGBT people, being called "faggot" is the biggest fear of many heterosexual men, and thus the easiest way to hurt them. Considering the long and violent history of the word, it’s important for people to understand its meaning before they use it so carelessly.