Repeat Offender, by Catherine Dorian : A Teacher's Story

A month or so ago, my good friend and one of my forever favorite English teachers sent me this write-up, and I loved it.

Miss Dorian was one of my teachers when I was the principal of a small-town high school. She has since moved on to the east coast where she is continually challenging herself, improving her profession, and making an impact on the world of education and in the lives of young adults.

What I love most about this piece is the raw honesty with which she writes. Every teacher can relate to this story as every teacher has lived it. What makes Miss Dorian exceptional, though, is her ability to internalize these moments. Instead of pointing fingers or consuming herself with bitterness, she strives to be better. A better teacher for sure, but also a better person.

Instead of taking it personally, she makes it personal. And in doing so, she gains compassion for the other side. She builds a bridge of understanding, of empathy, rather than discord.

And I just love that.

Repeat Offender, by Catherine Dorian

The other week, I spoke to the mother of a student who plagiarized a portion of an assignment. The mother was really not happy with me and “really not happy about this.” Clearly, her daughter hadn’t plagiarized. Clearly, I was making an unprecedented accusation.  

I gave her some context for the assignment. Her daughter had earned an 80% on a two-paragraph rhetorical analysis of one of the most important speeches on the abolition of slavery in the United States. I have a policy that any student can revise or rewrite any writing assignment before the end of the quarter, a policy designed to teach students to make use of feedback, to experience how time away from writing brings perspective and clarity, and to reflect on their revision process: a policy intended to offset a grading system that fails to teach mastery. Her daughter wants an A in the class, so, in the last week of the quarter, I encouraged her to revise the assignment. If she did, she may be able to improve her cumulative grade; moreover, she would be able to apply the significant strides in her analytical thinking that she has made since writing the original assignment.

“Yeah, I’m aware of your policy,” the mother said. “My daughter has had to rewrite assignments for you on several occasions.”

On the final day of the quarter, her daughter turned in a revision. When any student submits any assignment online, the Google Classroom algorithm does a full sweep of the assignment, checking for areas where the students’ writing is a word-for-word match with an online source.

“Yes, I’m aware of Google Classroom’s plagiarism checks. I’m an educator,” the mother reminded me.

I outlined my evidence: when her daughter turned in her rewrite, Google Classroom flagged it for plagiarism. According to the Google Classroom algorithm, her daughter pulled portions of the assignment from an online source without properly quoting or citing them, five days after I’d taught a detailed lesson on plagiarism and MLA citation with her class.

“Well, she swears up and down that she didn’t do it. I just can’t believe that you won’t believe her.”

I reiterated what I had already explained in my email to her earlier that day. When I spoke to her daughter about the assignment, she admitted to plagiarizing, apologized, said she understood that there were consequences for doing so, and assured me that she wouldn’t do it again. In tears, she explained that she was stressed and just wanted to do well.   

“Well of course, my daughter was stressed.”

Luckily, her daughter plagiarized on an assignment that was already a rewrite of an old assignment. Instead of earning zero points on the assignment, she could keep her original grade of 80%, which would not drastically bring down her cumulative grade, which was an 85% for the quarter.

But my attempt at reassurance only made this mother more indignant.  

We’ve had “countless conversations” about her daughter wanting an A, and yet again, she’d be getting a B on her report card.

That’s true.
And we’ve been talking “for a year” about what her daughter could do to improve.

That’s also true.

Her daughter’s done “everything” to get an A in my class, and I've never once given her the grade that she deserves.

That’s not quite true. I've given her child several sample assignments that have earned high marks, and I've compared/contrasted these assignments with her work, pointing to where she needs to go further in her analysis, add evidence to support her claims, elaborate on her analysis. I have modeled what A-level work looks like (I have a personal policy that I would never ask my students to do an assignment that I wouldn’t do myself, and more often than not, I write the assignment along with my students or show them a comparable essay that I wrote in college), along with several strategies to achieve A-level work. I spend anywhere from 15 - 45 minutes writing her daughter feedback on her assignments, explaining everything that she did well and explaining where she could improve. I've offered her weekly meetings, where I would give her personalized help on all of my assignments; she’s come for extra help only a handful of times in the last ten weeks.  

But my class is the “one class” that is bringing down her daughter's GPA.

My class is the “one class” that's preventing her daughter from getting a scholarship to college.

Ever since her old teacher left, she’s been struggling with English.

“It’s been an entire year with you—” the mother said, “and still, you’re not giving her an A. Good God, give the kid a break.” 

            At this point, I was getting tired. It was past three o’clock, her daughter is one student, and my other fifty-nine students still needed me to prepare their lesson for tomorrow, answer their emails, and give them feedback on their assignments. After that, I had to go home and complete a task for my second job, which provides enough supplemental income so that I can afford to keep my teaching job.

So, I did the only thing that I could think to do.

I apologized for my shortcomings and thanked her for her feedback. I promised to do more to help her child, and I promised that from now on, I would schedule 45 minutes of weekly extra help time with her daughter, where we would do her assignments together and I would ensure that she was doing everything that she could to get an A. I would follow-up with her on every writing assignment and walk her through how she could revise it. I would learn more about her learning style. I would acknowledge how hard she’s working, and make sure that I give her the recognition that she so greatly deserves.

She thanked me. “I’m sorry if I seemed aggressive at first,” she said.

No, no, she wasn’t aggressive.

“I’m just very defensive of my daughter, especially when I know how hard she’s working.”

That’s understandable.

She had to run and get her youngest to a dentist appointment. She thanked me for my time and consideration, said she was “really glad we had this talk,” and hung up. 

Downstairs in the guidance office, I updated the school counselor and the Dean of Students. A few colleagues swapped stories and strategies:

“Once, I complimented her daughter’s dress and asked her to wear a cardigan so that she’s adhering to the dress code. Not ten minutes later, I open an email, and her mom’s written a 1,200-word essay about how I was ‘too obsessed’ with policing what the girls wear.”

“The other week, she emailed me at 1 PM: ‘Call me now.’ Yeah, ‘cause I sit I around all day and wait until she needs me.”

“Oh, her? I’ve discovered that you just have to smile and take it. Don’t interrupt, don’t tell her the facts. Don’t defend yourself. Just let her rip.”

The plagiarism debacle wasn’t unique. I’ve been apologizing for things that weren’t my responsibility since I started teaching. Once, a mother berated me for assigning her daughter—an AP student—“over sixty pages of reading in two nights.” I pulled up the assignment, counted the pages three times, and, in a phone call that would take thirty minutes out of my day, confirmed with her that the assignment was, indeed, thirty pages, but that I would be more cognizant of the workload that I assign next time. Another time, I apologized to a mother for assuming that it was reasonable to ask a seventeen-year-old to check his email and ensure that he’s completed all of his assignments so that he could be eligible to play in what was supposedly the most important basketball game of his high school career. I also apologized to her for my failure to remind her to check his grades in the online gradebook—the gradebook that I updated three times a week, and the gradebook that she’d had access to all year.

I love teaching English because you get to teach about logic and rhetoric. You get to evaluate the strategies of some of the most celebrated speakers and writers of the past and the present. You get to empower students with the skill of supporting their ideas with evidence, with reasoning, with proof that prevails against the tyranny of delusion. You get to refine your own skills as you model the art of rational argument and civilized discussion with students, colleagues, parents, administrators, and school board members. You get to entertain the conviction that language can be a tool for disputing, deliberating, and resolving conflict. 

You’d think that after seven years teaching English, I’d have mastered the art of persuasion. But as I encounter more repeat offenders like the mother pictured here, I understand that no matter the amount of preparation I do for the difficult conversation – no matter Google’s algorithm which confirms the plagiarism, no matter the relevance or rigor behind the curriculum that I teach, no matter the extra hours I put in, no matter the one-on-one help that I offer, no matter the safety nets I rush beneath students who are dangerously close to hitting the pavement—there will still be parents who assume I hate their kid. So I really can’t and shouldn’t take it personally when parents insult me. I can’t and shouldn’t take offense to their skepticism or scrutiny. The best I can do is take it, absorb it, and assume that their frustration comes from their lack of faith in a school system that doesn’t set their child up for success. On that much, we can always agree, and for that much, I can always apologize.   

Thank you, Miss Dorian, for being so open and transparent with your thoughts and struggles! We can all relate. But also, and more importantly, thank you for leading by example on how to show grace and understanding to others. On how to move towards reconciliation and grace, rather than a strong defense.

Truly.

You can connect with Miss Dorian and follow more of her work at her website: catherinedorian.com. 

If you want to hear how Miss Dorian’s words inspired a two-part podcast discussion, check out Schurtz and Ties: a Podcast about Education and culture, Curse of Knowledge vs Gap of Knowledge (Part 1): Analyzing the gaps of misunderstanding between teachers and parents.

Lastly, if you have an idea you’d like to share or someone you believe we could all benefit from, please reach out and let me know! I am eager to share your story.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Education : On Leadership

Work. It gets the best of me.

This picture was taken a day after a major accident. I wasn’t paying much attention to the road; I was trying to call a struggling teacher.

I find that, at the end of the day, when I arrive home to my lovely wife and five fantastic kiddos, I’m exhausted. And not just tired exhausted, which I am, but resource exhausted.

I am less patient than I want to be because I used it all up throughout the day.

I’m less caring and intentional with my wife because I spent the day pushing into hard conversations and thinking and caring for others.

I’m less fun and energetic with my kids because my body is soar, my legs tired, and my mind spent.

Work gets the best of me; my family gets the worst.

I am not new to this understanding, nor am I espousing a wisdom previously unknown to every hardworking mom and dad, husband and wife. I am just renewed in my conviction and more aware that, recently, I am falling asleep on the couch while a child is in mid sentence, that I am spending too many evenings watching a movie or binging tv shows because its easier than anything else and I just want to rest.

My wife is generally very understanding and extremely accommodating to my busy schedule and demanding job. Recently, however, I begun to notice a slight (if not more than slight) slip in my time, efforts, and fight for quality family time. More than ever - and I’m not entirely sure why - I’ve adopted the attitude of “I deserve this” when in reality, I don’t. I just think I do. And I think it has something to do with moral licensing.

Moral licensing is “the habit of balancing out our good and bad decisions.” It is the convincing of “ourselves that it's okay we didn't do any recycling this week, because we usually do.” It is the attitude that its “fine to have that second helping of cake because we went on a run yesterday” (via).

Said another way, it is “when we are confident we have behaved well,” that we have “demonstrated compassion and generosity” all throughout the day or week and are therefor permitted little acts of selfishness, impatience, or thoughtlessness. It is the destructive convincing that, in the scheme of the week, day, or life, we have - generally - been a good person and are therefore permitted small acts of imperfection (via).

The problem with this way of thinking is fairly obvious. Namely, it isn’t right. From a basic integrity argument for sure, but also from a relational argument. Just because we are good most of the time doesnt mean we are permitted moments where we can be unkind, unloving, or foolish. And when I write it out, that truth is obvious. When I try and live it out, I find it much less convincing. And I hate it. My wife and kids deserve better of me.

So why is it so hard? Why do I continually do that which I do not want to do?

My son answered this for me the other day when he and I were engaged in a rather heated discussion. He had been rude to his younger sister and I was getting on him. “I don’t like acting this way,” he said, openly and honestly.

“Then why do you do it?” I asked. “Are you like this at school?”

“No.” He responded.

“Then why at home? Why do we get the worst of you?” I asked, instantly thinking of a black kettle and pot.

“Because it’s safe, I guess.”

Bingo.

Work, although safe in many regards, is not nearly as safe as my home.

If I am short with my staff or impatient with my words, I can expect a phone call or visit from my boss. If I don’t show up to work, I don’t get paid. If my behavior is less than what is expected, I will be placed on an imrovement plan. At work, there is immediate and uncomfortable accountability.

At home, there is grace. At home, there is unconditional love. At home, there is comfort. And comfort can be an incredibly bad thing.

I know my wife won’t leave me, just as she knows I won’t leave her. But not leaving is a pretty low bar of expectations. We can stay together for the next thirty years but be completely unsuccessful in our marriage, in raising our kids.

And that is exactly what has been on my mind lately.

When my career is over, when I receive the retirement plaque of 30-some years commitment to this wonderful profession, I don’t merely want my wife and kids in attendance, I want them celebrating their dad. A dad they know, that they respect, and that they are proud of. I want my wife to be excited for the next chapter of life because she has learned from the past seven that no matter the circumstance, I will be present. That in all things, no matter how busy or exhausted I am, I choose her.

Lately, I don’t think she could confidently say that.

In a recent conversation with a friend I found myself saying, “I am defined by my family. My wife, my kids. But I spend more of my days thinking about and caring for my profession - the kids in my building and how I can improve the school.” I spend less time considering how to pursue my wife, support my kids, and build a solid and safe home.

Work gets the best of me. My family gets the rest of me. And that just simply terrifies me.

So what do I do? What does this acknowledgement mean? And, more importantly, what can I do about it.

One, I think flirting with moral licensing needs to go. That’s a dangerous and dark alley, and the fact that I’ve even lingered on the corner makes me sick.

Two, I need to place some of my selfish ambitions aside - or at least be willing to. So what if I gain all that my mind desires - a successful publishing career, a several times recognized blue ribbon school, and great applause for all I’ve done - if my wife and kids don’t know me, don’t trust me, don’t like me, what is it worth? A pile of dirt, that’s what.

And three, give to Caesar what is Caesar’s. I am not responsible for what will happen, only what needs to be done (as I slightly nod to Gandalf). I am also responsible for what I’ve been given. And what I’ve been given is a kind and gracious wife who loves others more than herself and five kiddos who need a dad, a father, and an example. If loving and caring for them lowers my chances of personal advancement, so be it. It is out of my hands. My children, my wife, my family, however, are not. And I need to grip them tightly.

Work may get the most of me, but it doesn’t need to get the best of me. I can love my job, work hard at refining my craft, come home exhausted, and STILL carry some of the best of me through the door. And I must.

Becoming a better father and husband makes me a better principal, educator, and leader because it makes me a complete, more well-rounded person. And when I am a more complete, well-rounded person, work gets the best of me. And so does my family.

#doGREATthings!

Give. Relate. Explore. Analyze. Try.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Education : On Leadership

"And" : by Kasey Schurtz

Zuzu, my four year old, is desperate to read.  She loves looking at the pictures in her books but she wants to be able to understand the words too. We’ve tried to satiate her desire to read by looking at sight word flashcards together.  One of the first cards we flipped over was AND.  No doubt she understands that word. Despite her familiarity with it, she scrunched up her face and with a wrinkled nose asked, “What does AND mean?”

Such a simple, easy, complex, difficult question.  I tried to explain that it was an additive. It adds more to something. Not exactly a great “explain it like I’m five response,” so I offered some examples.  

“Like babies and”

Zuzu quickly finished my example by shouting “milkshakes!”  

I was thinking about babies and bottles.  She was right though.  Milkshakes make just about anything better.  And shouldn’t we be looking for as many opportunities as possible to add value to our lives and the lives of others too?  We should add just one more AND when we talk to our family, our friends, and our colleagues.  Thank you for giving me a few minutes of your time AND I can’t wait to work with you again.

In the course of our daily trek, we often stop short of a much needed AND.   Worse yet, we often become takers.  We subtract from others.  With the best intentions of all those who were present, I met with a team of teachers to discuss a student who struggled academically.  One by one, each teacher offered up their view of the student with the same sentence frame. He (insert vague positive comment) BUT he (insert numerous perceived shortcomings.) The clause following BUT does the opposite of adding value. Each BUT chiseled away at the perceived value of that child.

BUT. That was not one of the sight words that my daughter was learning which is probably for the best.  She likely would have run around the house shaking her butt or screamed about our dog Murphy having a furry butt. The humor of a four year old.  If that was one of our sight words, not only would I have had to explain the difference between butt and but, I would also have had to talk about how BUT is a negative.  It negates. Dinner was good, BUT the steak was overcooked. Treyvon is a really talented kid, BUT he doesn’t do any of the work I assign him.  

Perhaps unintentionally, BUT erases anything that was spoken previously.  My wife only heard, the steak was overcooked.  Treyvon only heard that he doesn’t do any of his work.  BUT negates words that might have inspired good feelings or helped to build up someone’s self-esteem.  BUT doesn’t solve problems, or look to the future. BUT has a finality to it. AND is hopeful. AND leaves room for growth.  If we can exchange but for and, we may find ourselves adding value to others.  Dinner was good AND I can’t wait to help you make breakfast in the morning. Treyvon is a really talented kid AND we are working together to help him develop a system for tracking his assignments.  By swapping BUT for AND the good feelings remain and new opportunities manifest.  

Considering the value of AND, I’d like to finish with a quick edit to my intro.  My four year old is desperate to read.  She loves looking at the pictures in her books AND she wants to be able to understand the words too. As is, the book already has value and it can offer so much more when she understands the words.  Those we encounter each day, our colleagues, our students, they all have value exactly as they are, and let’s add to that with just one more AND.

If you have an idea you’d like to share or someone you believe we could all benefit from, please reach out and let me know! I am eager to share your story.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Education : On Leadership

Doing Dangerous Things Carefully : How to Engage in Safe yet Meaningful Conversations

“If your gonna make your kids tough, which they better be if they’re gonna survive in the world, you can’t interfere when they’re doing dangerous things carefully.”
- Jordan Peterson

This advice has been on the forefront of my thoughts recently, but not necessarily because of the way the statement was intended. Where my mind has gravitated towards is how this statement plays out in the context of leadership. More specifically, how we as leaders engage in conversations with those we lead.

As leaders, if we do not encourage those we lead to engage in potentially dangerous conversations, not only will we not survive our position, our schools, churches, and companies will crumble because we won’t learn anything. And if we aren’t learning, we aren’t growing.

Below are five ways we can improve ourselves and those we lead by carefully engaging in dangerous conversations:

1. Keep it Secret. Keep it Safe: If those we lead know that our conversation isn’t secret, isn’t safe, if they know that we will share information with others, then for them, the conversation is dangerous. As a leader, no matter what is shared with us, be it work related or not, whatever we hear must be kept safe from the ears of others. Once the secret is out, we are no longer trusted. And if we aren’t trusted, we aren’t safe. And once word gets out that we aren’t safe, we no longer have an ear to our schools or community, losing all opportunity to impact others and make change. The talking will continue, just not with us for it will often be about us. And that is a dangerous place to be.
   

   Helpful Phrase: “It’s not my story to tell.” This allows you the ability to acknowledge that you know about the situation but are unable to share, instilling trust in those around you that when you have important information you keep secret, you keep it safe.
   

2. Don’t take it Personal. Make it Personal: When someone shares dangerous information, often times it is dangerous for them, not us. It might be hurtful or hard to hear - especially if what is being said is a critique on who we are and how we lead - but we are still the one who can do something about it. If we take the information personal, we discourage people from sharing hard information with us because they don’t want to hurt our feelings or make us upset. Nor do they want to jeopardize their job or position. If we make it personal, however, we acknowledge our role and our responsibility. We accept what is being said and commit to doing something about it. And when we do that, we create a safe environment that encourages further conversation and builds a culture of trust. When we take it personal we get defensive. When we make it personal we take action.
   
   Helpful Phrase: “I can do better.” Because we can. No matter the complaint or charge against us, as the leader, we are ultimately responsible. We may not have the answer - yet - but making the situation personal and taking ownership is as good a place as any to start. For us, and for those we lead.
   

3. Circle Back: This is most important. Making people feel heard is important, too. So is keeping their information secret and safe. But circling back, revisiting a conversation or acting on information heard is crucial to creating a safe place because it is the manifestation that you are indeed listening to them, and that we truly do care. When someone shares information with us, often times they are doing so because they trust that we are going to circle back around and do something about it. As a leader, we may not always be able to solve the problems of our staff - largely because they are bigger than who we are and our position - but we can always, always, circle back and check in on our staff, but only if we truly care about them. Just like we would turn the car around for our wallet or favorite pair of sunglasses, circling back to our staff establishes importance. It shows that we not only care enough to think about them, but that they are important enough to spend our precious time circling back.
   
   Helpful Phase: “I’ve been thinking about you.” It’s simple, but it’s also effective. Largely because we only think about the things we care about. Writing a card, sending a text, bringing coffee - or whatever - lets people know they are important enough for us to think about. “I’ve been thinking about you” means I haven’t forgotten about you. Which is huge. Because nobody wants to be forgotten.
   

4. Protect Your Culture. Establish Boundaries: As leaders, it is important for us to be vulnerable because it makes us personable and relatable. But only if we have established boundaries. As Brene Brown explains, vulnerability without boundaries can be dangerous because it is manipulating. When leaders share their struggles, their hurts and frustrations they build connections with their staff. Which is great! When done without boundaries, however, vulnerability becomes dangerous. When a leader shares too much or too often about their struggles, their shortcomings, or their doldrums about the profession (be it the kids, parents, or even their own bosses), two things will occur. One, it will set s standard that complaining and negativity is not only acceptable, it’s the default. The second reaction will be that those you lead will begin to lose faith in your ability to lead. Being human is perfectly acceptable. Being incompetent is not - even if that’s how we feel. As a leader, you carry immense power over the culture of your school. Protect your culture with strong boundaries, not open gates.
   

   Helpful Phrase: “We got this!” As a leader, it is imperative that we continually push our cultures and ourselves towards improvement. Being ignorant or ignoring issues is dangerous. So too is wallowing in them. Accepting them, however, as challenges to overcome not only encourages a positive culture, it unifies a culture. When we say to our staff, our students, “We got this,” we are admitting that there is an issue (establishing trust in our judgement), but we build and establish confidence that we will overcome - that we are capable! Which not only inspires hope, it encourages confidence. In their leader and in themselves.

5. Look past the words. See the story: “In order to think,” Jordan Peterson says, “you have to risk being offensive.” This is oftentimes difficult because it is the words that sting, that resonate, and that stay with us. But beyond the words is a story, and as a leader it is our job to get beyond the spoken words and dig deeper into what is actually happening. Are they afraid? Scared? Or hurt? Because if so, their words might be aggressive, defensive, or accusatory. Which is what makes true and meaningful conversations so dangerous. We can get so focused on the surface of the conversation that we neglect to see what is actually happening. But as a leader, that is our job. To look past the words and see the story. Because it’s not about us, its about them. And they need to know that.

   Helpful Phrase: “Say more.” As leaders, often times our first instinct is to speak up, to provide advice, share a story, or provide explanation. We want to solve the problem or defend our position. But just as often, when those we lead share their hearts, they’re not looking for a solution or an explanation. They just want to be heard. “Say more,” allows them that opportunity while also providing us space. Space from the specific words and therfore distance from the emotions they are invoking. And when we get distance, we get perspective. We see the story. Which, in the end, is really what it’s all about.

Engaging in conversation, in true and meaningful dialogue where ideas are expressed, where personal stories are told, and our hearts and minds and fears and dreams are laid bare, is a very dangerous thing. Done carefully, however, it can change a culture and a community. It can encourage, inspire, and truly save lives. But only if we’re willing to sit, listen, and get beyond ourselves. Which for many - myself included - is often a very difficult thing to do.

But that doesn’t mean we stop trying. Because as leaders, we’re not allowed to; as humans, we can’t afford to. Doing dangerous things carefully by engaging in safe and meaningful conversations is our job, our calling, and our responsibility. So let’s get after it!

We got this.