Discovering New Mirrors

Reflecting on classroom silliness

“Butterfly balls!” Sarah blurts on impulse.

A collective pause.

Then a waterfall of ha-ha-ha’s and LOL’s cascades through the chat. The students I can see roll back in laughter, and a few others turn on their cameras to reveal additional amusement as the quietest student has just made our entire class envision cute little butterflies with dangling testicles; no wonder they never fly in a straight line.

Sarah is bright red, but suddenly interrupts with “Oh, wait. Moth balls.”

A second wave of laughter, more intense than the first. I am no match for immature humor, so I am in tears and laughing so hard I can’t speak. A 3-minute dose of Zoom Pictionary has yielded such an unexpected, but a much needed moment of hilarity.

Earlier in this class, I had admonished my students, expressing disappointment that so many hadn’t picked up their new books yet. “It’s been a week, people,” I had said. “Like it or not, this is how it needs to work. You need to do your part.” My frustration was clear, and it hung over our Zoom class as we made our way through the lesson I was adjusting on the fly.

With about five minutes to go, I thought, what the hell. “Let’s try something.”

Like my colleagues, I’ve been feeling the grind of making virtual instruction work. Making our strange cloud spaces meaningful. Making connections through screens. Since the beginning of the school year, I’ve prioritized reflection as a way through it all. I’ve deliberately hung mirrors within our curriculum: We spend time reflecting on progress made toward our goals, and when we analyze our literature, we reflect on how our own experiences and values compare.

It’s been an endeavor coaching students to be okay with looking into these mirrors straight on instead of at some selfie-like flattering angle. And to ignore grades — each a seductive, false mirror convincing students and parents that xpoints = xlearning or worse, that xpoints = xworthiness.

I want more for them, so I gladly throw myself into this rewarding and infuriating mission, wearing it like a pair of glasses every day. In some future post I will share all the details, data, and student thoughts on this work, but today I need a break from that heavy thinking.

Today I’d rather share the silly stuff — Just living in the fun moments

I’m always giddy as I near the end of a one-on-one conference with a student because I know they will laugh — and graciously shake their heads — as they see me pull out the fortune teller I’ve fashioned out of a loose-leaf sheet of paper. You know, those little origami wonders: pick a number, pick a color, here’s your fortune? As an alternative, I like asking them a series of brief rapid-fire fun questions, but there’s something about the fortune teller that’s extra fun.

I had 17 conferences today, which means 17 students received good fortunes.

I was worried for the new student who would start classes with us right before Thanksgiving break. That sort of timing is always a challenge, but during remote learning…? And how would my students welcome him: with rows of silent black boxes? When I introduced him yesterday, however, he received a steady round of chatted welcomes and voiced hellos. Then someone typed, “Another Caleb?!” He was our third. I loved the teasing acceptance. And the joke continued. When students typed their names into the Kahoot, up popped Awesome Caleb, The Best Caleb, and Caleb the Great. And that’s how they’ll be known for the rest of the semester.

Our virtual homerooms follow a consistent pattern of activities, beginning with a warm-up question students respond to in the chat. Monday’s question was “What food do you crave most often?” As I was reading out student responses and asking an occasional follow-up, Braxton chatted, “I love how you always read every response. Not all teachers do that. You’re the real deal.” I smiled and thanked him out loud. Then I looked in the chat:

From Braxton to Everyone:
Braxton is awesome
Braxton is my hero
Braxton is the goat

Yup. I read those out loud too. And Confetti!

I’ve gotten into the habit of playing music as I let students into the Zoom, checking them off one by one for attendance. A couple days ago when Justin Timberlake’s “Can’t Stop the Feeling” played during attendance, I saw “Nice moves, Mrs. C” in the chat. I probably blushed: In a regular in-person class, I’d be too self conscious to dance in front of my students. But there I was, unconsciously “dancing,” Zoom-style, where it’s all about the head and shoulders. JT was still singing, so I continued head-bobbing and asked the class to join in. A couple students and I “danced” out the song. I think I set a precedent.

Does Zoom Pictionary or virtual confetti help students analyze literature or make progress on their goals? Nope. But it does help me reflect. I’ve learned laughing together is magical and that my students are hilarious. They’re also kind and welcoming. And they need to be celebrated and heard.

I also realize why I find myself writing about silliness today.

When I began teaching in 1997, I gravitated to artsy and boisterous activities, most of which weren’t mapped to specific outcomes; they just felt like the best way to dress up the stodgy curriculum I had inherited. My eighth graders probably didn’t improve their writing because they personified punctuation in skits and played Grammar Baseball, but we enjoyed so many moments together.

Then, as if it were sent to directly target me and my frivolity, arrived the data-driven movement: measure, record, analyze, advance or remediate, repeat — the magical formula to finding Best Practice™. Just living in the moment with students didn’t yield a set of numbers to track, but that was where I found the good stuff.

Nonetheless, the last 15 years has been a journey of balancing the goals and the giddiness, the data and the dazzle, and realizing that one can lead to the other. The kind of journey fueled by failure and imperfection.

But as we began remote learning a few months ago, teachers everywhere were called to make classes more rigorous than they were in the Spring: We don’t want students to fall behind. (Behind what I’m not sure.) Raise the bar. Every. Minute. Counts.

Cut to a dark living room lit only by a small lamp and the glow of a laptop screen. 1:00 am. Curled into the corner of the couch, a teacher sobs, her concerned bulldog looking on. Surrounded by scrawled notes and student records, each unchecked item on her to-do list carries the weight of defeat. There’s. Not. Enough. Time.

No time for hilarity? Grab a whoopie cushion and steal some. Because no, there’s not enough time, and yes, every minute counts. Whether it’s organic or cheesily forced, even a few minutes of humor helps my students connect and gives me a break from the whirling dervish that is remote teaching. It’s okay if a few plates fall; I need to spend some of those minutes fighting for the good stuff.

In the quest to respond to student needs and to help students make meaning for themselves, I can easily lose myself in the seriousness of it all. It is important for sure, but sometimes the best reflections don’t come from the mirrors we hang.

Sometimes they come from a screen full of students and their teacher being silly.

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