My principal handed me my class's test scores in a purple folder. She said, "Turn to the first page only." I saw a picture of myself smiling next to my third graders from the year before. The, I turned to the second page and saw that my students had not met expectations on the state test. I was devastated. A tear ran down my face.
"Chris," she said, "Your students and families had a remarkable year with you. They still talk to me about how wonderful it was. You are a great relationship builder; this is just one measure of success. There are many others."
I had spent years railing against standardized tests. I used to say, "I don't want my students to get an A on the wrong test," as if I objected to the skills and content that were being measured. But now I was just tired.
For all my emphasis on holding plays in the classroom, creating art, and fostering laughter and joy, my students needed more critical academic skills. I adored these kids, but the story I told myself about "it's better to develop creativity and relationships" was not closing the achievement gap. I was tired of making excuses for why all my students weren't meeting expectations in both relationships and academic development. I wanted every single one of them to excel with interpersonal skills, creativity, and curiosity, as well as reading, writing, and math. The story I was telling myself was getting in the way of these student’s learning.
I swallowed my ego and accepted I couldn't master these things alone. There were just too many learning needs that I needed to fully understand. I sought out the feedback of other teachers, educators, and engaged in professional development focused on high-impact instruction. Soon, I became hooked on working alongside my teammates. I loved having them watch my instruction, and I loved watching theirs. I found the joy that comes from using a new instructional technique and watching it land powerfully with a student. I wanted more feedback, data, and nerdy staff lounge discussions of what works and why.
I spent the next 15 years learning how to improve my instruction. During this time, I realized that solid relationships with students were only the tip of the instructional iceberg. Other important factors included immediate, straightforward feedback to students, engaging every single student all class period long, attending to the precise words I used, and scaffolding the content to target every level of learner in my room. Presenting success criteria to students mattered, as did intensity, pacing, celebration, and teaching children what to say when they didn't see the answer.
I noticed something: The more I challenged my students at the exact moments they were ready for it, the deeper my relationship became with them. It was still super fun, but I was also helping them embrace their brilliance. Deep relationships do not come at the expense of intense learning; they come as a result of it.
To a beloved mentor, I recently lamented how long it took me to learn these instructional skills. "Why does it take so long to learn these skills?" I asked. She laughed and said, "It's not the time it takes to learn masterful teaching that matters, Chris. You constantly realize what you don't know and act immediately to change things. Whether you had a particular skill at any given time, your students knew you were willing to be wrong about your approach. That was the gift you gave each of them." She could see I was not necessarily encouraged by that statement. “Well, Chris, you may be waking up slowly, but at least you’re waking up.”
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