Month: September 2023

Wins and Losses

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

I lost some sleep last night— it’s not too atypical for me, a gal in her 50s, to be unable to sleep at night because a) I’ve got some losses on my brain I haven’t yet processed and b) while trying to distract myself from those unprocessed losses, I have stumbled into a particularly engaging murder mystery.

The coincidence, though, is that the book revolves around multiple losses! Somehow reading about fictional losses is preferable to thinking about the real ones I’ve witnessed in the past week.

I prefer to celebrate wins — I just finished the third week of the school year, and the wins are stacking up! The majority of my students have been consistently opting in to learning, the weather has been near perfection, our seniors (and some juniors) toured two colleges this past week, and my newest cohort of reading students is off to a great start!

There is so much to celebrate, but wins in every context are invariably set against an undeniable backdrop of loss. For example, in the last three weeks, our school, which routinely has a 90% staff retention rate, has lost one teacher each week. The first week, our newly hired freshman ELA teacher resigned to return to a district where he had previously been employed. The second week, a strong team member who has taught financial literacy to our students with her whole heart, left to pursue an administrative role in another district. And this week, perhaps the hardest hit of all, our long-time algebra and geometry teacher who has some of the strongest relationships in the building, announced that he is making a career move at the end of next week.

In a small school like ours, with just under 300 students, these blows hit hard. We are a family, after all. We all know each other by name. We razz each other in the hallway. We defend each other in the midst of chaos. We cheer each other on. We have each other’s backs.

And the loss is not only a blow to the morale of the staff, it is the latest in a string of losses for our students.

You may be tired of me saying it, but it is the reality I witness each day — many of my students have suffered deep, deep loss. Just this past week, I learned of a junior who lost her mother since school started and a senior whose grandmother died last week. Then Friday, one of my seniors stepped out of class to take a call during which he learned that his brother, who had been in critical condition, had just died! And these are not isolated cases. Each year — each and every year — I have had a student who has lost a parent. It seems each year I have also had a student who has lost a sibling. And last year, I even had a student who lost her own newborn child.

So imagine that you’re in your senior year, that you spent your freshman year in your bedroom peering into a zoom room on a chromebook that you didn’t quite yet know how to navigate, that you lost one or two or three close family members to Covid, that your family had to move one or two or three times within the last two to three years because they a) couldn’t afford the rent, b) got evicted, or c) had some other family trauma that necessitated a move, and then you show up to your senior year and notice that once a week a staff member disappears. How does one respond in the face of loss after loss after loss?

You might be overwhelmed. You might become depressed. Or, you might do whatever you have to do to survive — you might keep people at arm’s length, or you may put up an crusty exterior so that people don’t know you’re hurting.

I’ve seen that. I watched a girl all last fall defiantly walk out of classes, repeatedly (and sometimes aggressively) spar with classmates, and verbally challenge those who might dare to hold her accountable. She was a junior, but I knew her name because I had repeated hallway interactions with her.

“Where are you supposed to be, LaShay?”

“I’m goin’ to the bathroom.”

“Didn’t you just come from the bathroom?”

“Stop talkin to me.”

She was angry, it was obvious. And she was kind of hard to like, if I’m gonna be honest. And, I’ll admit, that when she was removed from the building and forced to do online learning after an incident that threatened the safety of others, I was a bit relieved. She was a high-flyer, constantly in need of redirection from not just me, but all of the members of the leadership and school culture teams.

When she showed up at the back to school fair a few weeks ago, with her younger sister, who had also been sent home due to the same incident, I swallowed hard and thought, Well, here we go. This time, she’s in my class..

Her sister sought me out, gave me a hug, and said, “Mrs. Rathje, we’re back!”

I hugged her, and said, “Great to see you! Is LaShay here?”

“She’s in the gym.”

“Let’s go find her,” I said.

I walked to the gym, found LaShay, walked up to her, smiled, and said, “Welcome back,” with the most genuine smile I could conjur. I was determined to start off on the right foot.

She side-eyed me, and then looked down.

“You’re with me this year, dear. I’m looking forward to it.”

Without answering, she walked away, to go talk to a friend on the other side of the gym.

The first week with LaShay was a little dicey. She showed up to class consistently a little late. She scrolled on her phone when everyone else in the class followed my direction to “stow phones during instruction,” and got a little huffy with me when I joined her for partner work when she refused to join anyone else.

But I persisted. I pointed out that her attendance had been perfect near the end of the second week, “even if you do tend to show up late,” I said.

“I don’t show up late. I’m here on time. I’m doing my best. My mom has cancer, and I’m the oldest. I gotta get myself and all my siblings together, but I get all of us here on time.”

There it was. My opportunity. I remembered a brief interchange from the year before when I learned that her mom was sick, when I asked her why she was crying in the hallway. She wasn’t crying now. She was, indeed, “together” and she and her siblings were consistently in the building.

“LaShay, I’m so sorry to hear that. I do see you in school every day. I was noticing that you are often late to my class, but I didn’t realize that you were the oldest or that your mother was still sick. You probably have a lot of responsibility right now.”

She looked at me and nodded.

“Ok. I can give you some grace, but I’m gonna ask you to do your best to get here by the bell. It’s something we are really working on this year. However, now that I know what’s going on, I will try to be understanding. Please let me know how I can support you.”

“Ok.” she said, and she got back to her work.

I’m gonna call that a win — a big win! — against a backdrop of devastating loss. She lost half a year in the building last year because of a dust up that was likely a response to the trauma of her mom being critically ill. She is losing some of her childhood and her innocence because she has to take on the mantle of responsibility during her mother’s illness. However, she is winning, because she is developing the skills to communicate her reality in a way that will help her get the understanding she needs.

It takes vulnerability to share with a teacher, one who has historically been on your case, that something is not right in your world. She couldn’t count on me responding like I did. She doesn’t know me that well. But she took the chance, and that’s a win.

On Friday afternoon, I got in my car, and drove to a football field in the heart of Detroit to work the gate at our team’s game. La Shay is a cheerleader — on top of everything else right now, she is claiming the opportunity to fully opt in to her senior year. In order to stay on the team, she will have to keep herself together, stay out of trouble, and represent the school well.

During half time, the cheerleaders came over to where I was standing with last year’s principal, who came to the game because even though she no longer works in our building, these are her babies. The girls took turns hugging their former principal, and I took the opportunity to move in closer.

“LaShay, come here,” I said as I waved her over, “Your principal needs to hear that you are killing it this year. That you’ve got perfect attendance and you’re completing your assignments!”

She beamed. The principal hugged her, encouraged her to keep it up, and hugged her again, saying, “I knew you would!”

Another win — and this girl could really use some wins right now.

Loss is the reality of life on the planet — the hits inevitably keep coming, so it’s important to not only process the loss, but to note the wins. I didn’t always do this. Because I was so frantically trying to create perfection, I didn’t leave the space to acknowledge, let alone grieve, loss. Instead, I defiantly moved forward, demanding those around me to join my pursuit of perfection, and because I was looking for perfection, I didn’t celebrate all the wins.. I lost a lot in those days — the tenderness I could have had in some of my most dear relationships, the opportunity to show the people I love the most the grace that they needed in their losses, and the opportunity to celebrate their wins. I wasn’t brave enough (or self-aware enough) at the time to be vulnerable — to communicate my reality in ways that get me the understanding that I needed.

But I’m brave enough now — brave enough to seek out a defiant young woman in a school gym and to take the chance at building a relationship with her, because she looks a lot like someone I used to be, and it seems she could use someone to help her learn to celebrate the wins that happen against the backdrop of loss.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God

2 Corinthians 1:3-4

*One of the ways I celebrate student wins (and cushion losses) is by providing a steady stream of snacks, supplies, and prizes in my classroom. Many of you have contributed to my stockpile, and I am thankful for you! You make this work possible!

Post-Covid Learning: One Teacher’s Experience

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

In March of 2020, we sent all of the nation’s children home in the first weeks of the Covid Pandemic. How could we have anticipated the impact of this decision? While some students were home for several weeks, many students, especially students of color in our nation’s urban areas, were home for more than a year. How might this have impacted their social-emotional development, they mental health, or their learning?

We educators have been beginning to unpack the broad impacts of the pandemic on our students over the last two to three school years. Here’s what I’ve seen.

In the fall of 2021, when my students first returned to in-person learning at my Detroit charter school after 18 months of remote instruction — which for many in my community meant no instruction at all — I noticed extremely high anxiety and a limited ability to interact with peers without conflict. Our students needed support to merely exist in the classroom within six feet of their peers. Although everyone was masked, these students had learned that proximity meant danger. It took some time for them be comfortable around one another, particularly because with some regularity, whole groups were sent home to quarantine after one member of their classroom cluster tested positive. It wasn’t until late in that school year that the Covid protocols changed, masks became optional, and our whole community started to relax a little. The heightened anxiety surrounding that school year led some students to stay home intermittently, to switch to virtual learning for yet another year, or to do their best to muddle through day by day. For teachers, this meant that academics, while important, were not the priority. Since Maslow illustrated his hierarchy of needs we’ve recognized that a student needs to feel safe before he can be free to learn. Our focus was on building predictability through routine and on getting our students the social work supports that they needed.

Much of this carried into that second fall — 2022 — where our back to school professional development sessions centered on the brain science behind trauma. We learned about the amygdala’s response to danger — flight, fight, freeze, and appease — and how our routines and instructional strategies can minimize this response and the interruptions it causes to learning. This is relevant in our context not only because our students have experienced the extended communal trauma of the pandemic but because they have also endured the traumas associated with systemic racism such as food insecurity, housing insecurity, violence, and negative experiences with law enforcement. Our social workers and behavioral specialists worked overtime to anticipate difficult situations, to mitigate conflict, and to restore relationships. Again, although academics were moving up on the priority list, they were not at the top.

As we were moving through the virtual year and the return to in-person learning — I, fresh from working at Lindamood-Bell where our whole gig was reading intervention and remediation, noticed that very few, if any, of my of my students were reading and comprehending at grade level. I lifted my concern to our Director of Academics, “We’ve got to get a reading interventionist in here — these students need support.”

I said that during the 2021-2022 school year and found myself in August of 2022 at an intensive training week for the reading program called Adolescent Accelerated Reading Intervention (AARI). I would be piloting this program for one year — last school year. During that academic year, I worked with 18 freshmen over the course of two semesters. Each of them started AARI with an instructional reading level at or below third grade. Over the course of one semester, the students and I worked on decoding (sounding out words, breaking words into syllables, etc), which is not part of AARI, building a mental movie about what we were reading (also not AARI), and using the text to support our thinking and developing metacognitive skills (all AARI). After one semester of work, I only had one student who did not improve at all — and that was likely due to the fact that he was absent almost half of the days that we met. Two students grew one grade level during that semester, most grew two to three grade levels, and a few grew four or more grade levels in one semester. It’s quite a remarkable program.

As a result of this success, and the data I obtained testing students over two semesters, our school adopted a broad tier-two intervention called Read 180 for all of our freshmen for this school year. That means that rather than 18 freshmen getting the intensive remediation that I provided, ALL incoming freshmen would receive an intervention that, delivered via computer, in small groups, and with the aid of an instructor, yields two years of growth in one year. I was very excited to hear that we were getting help for all of our freshmen. I was even more excited when I learned that I would be providing AARI to a select group of sophomores and juniors.

I have spent the last two weeks working one-on-one to evaluate students who scored the lowest among their classmates on the Reading and Language section of the PSAT last Spring. (Perhaps one day I will write a whole post about my feelings regarding standardized testing in general and the SAT/ACT specifically, but not today.) I pulled each of these students to my room, had a conversation with them, administered the Qualitative Reading Inventory (QRI) and determined their need for AARI. I was gut punched when I realized that two sophomores and one junior in our building scored at the first grade level for reading comprehension. How in the world were they functioning in high school? How could they continue to show up if the content of their classes was that frustrating?

Most of the students I selected for the class tested at the second or third grade level when measuring reading comprehension. When we take into account that many of them did not read much from 2020-2021, and that many of them have been in a trauma response for the past two to three years or more, this is not terribly surprising. What is surprising is the half dozen students I met with who scored much higher. These few lit up when I told them that the PSAT is not an accurate measure of their intellect, that although Covid was devastating and their skills are possibly rusty, they have the capacity to be successful not only in high school but beyond. I looked them in the eyes and assured them that now that I know who they are and what they can do, I will be watching and expecting great things. These few, mostly black males, sat up straighter, looked me in the eyes, said, “Yes, Ma’am,” and “thank you.” One young woman who, despite severe anxiety, demonstrated a keen aptitude for academics said, “I am thankful for you and what you are doing..”

The ones who qualified for my class had an equally amazing response. To a person, they acknowledged that “reading is hard for me.” They said, “I need this class, ” and “thank you for doing this.”

Here’s what they didn’t do. They didn’t say, “I don’t need help with reading.” or “I’m not taking some dumb reading class.” They didn’t refuse to read lists of words or answer questions about the similarities and differences between whales and fish. They didn’t question why I was pulling them from class. They didn’t resist.

No, these students recognize what they have lost. They know they need help. They know support when they see it.

How do I know? Because for the past two weeks, as I have moved through the halls, I have heard these students, and the students I worked with last year. They call out, “Hi, Mrs. Rathje.” They don’t act like they don’t know me. They don’t avoid me. No. They stop by my room, they give me a fist bump as I pass, they throw their arms around me in a hug.

But they do these things not just to me. They love all the teachers in our building because they feel safe here. They see the hard work we have done to create a predictable environment. They notice us responding to their mental health needs. They understand that we see them, we know what they have been through, and we are here for them, cheering them on to success.

On Friday, I was calling all the parents of my new cohort. “Good afternoon, this is Mrs. Rathje from Detroit Leadership Academy.” I explained why I was calling, that we had noticed since Covid that many of our students are below grade level in reading comprehension, and that their student had been identified as one who could benefit from this class. Most parents said, “Ok, thank you,” or “Whatever he needs, I support,” but one mother took my breath away.

“Thank you so much for noticing this. I lost both of my parents during Covid and to be honest, I’ve been deep in grief and didn’t even realize that he was falling behind. Thank you so much for paying attention to him.”

These students are not behind in reading because they are dumb or poor or Black. They are behind in reading because they have been through a lot, their learning has been interrupted, and they need some support to get back on track.

I can’t wait to get started with them and to cheer them on as they learn and grow this year.

I’m a sucker for a story of restoration, especially when I have a front row seat.

I am confident of this: I will see the goodness of God in the land of the living.

Psalm 27:13

*For data surrounding the impact of Covid on learning, check out the documents linked below:

Harvard School of Education, May 2023

Center for School and Student Progress, July 2023

NWEA Study, Chalkbeat, July 2023

**If you know an educator in the Detroit area that cares about educational equity, please connect them with me. Because of the nature of our work, we are always looking for partners, teachers, coaches, and other encouragers.

Front Row Seat

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

The Thursday before school started, we the staff of Detroit Leadership Academy took our stations around the building, preparing for the open house where students would come to get their schedules and chromebooks and begin to reconnect with the world of school after eight weeks away.

I was at the main entrance, checking students in. I didn’t know the freshmen, of course, they were new to our building, but I was watching for those students I recognized, especially the small group of students I had had in my reading class the previous year.

“Hey! How was your summer?” I said as I stood from my seat to receive a hug. “It’s so good to see you!”

I was also watching for last year’s juniors, who would be my new senior class. I knew some of their names, but we aren’t familiar enough for a hug.

“Are you ready for this?” I would say, “You ready to be a senior?”

The replies were varied: “Of course!” “Hell, yeah!” “I think so.” “I’m not sure.” “I’m scared.”

I’ve seen it from every group of seniors I’ve ever taught. Some things don’t change; others do.

The first day of school was predicted to be in excess of 90 degrees, and since our school doesn’t have air conditioning, our administration determined to have an early release. We would see each group of students for just 30 minutes, and then they would board their non – air conditioned busses for the sweltering ride home,.

I had two box fans and two ceiling fans blowing, and my two operational windows as far open as they go. I stationed a cooler full of water bottles covered in ice at the front of my room, and kept the lights off to keep the room as cool as possible.

When the bell sounded, my students met me at the door, got their seat assignments, and made their way to their desks. It took me a while — perhaps until this reflective moment — to register that something felt different.

This wasn’t the fall of 2020 where I met my students inside the small square of the zoom room.

It wasn’t the fall of 2021 where my students entered my room mask-clad, the vibration of anxiety among us palpable.

And it wasn’t the manufactured bravado and audaciousness of 2022 — the defiant swagger born of two years of persistent trauma.

No, this past week, the first week of school year 2023-24 felt….light…spacious…and maybe even hopeful.

As I shared the big picture goals for the year — the district-wide vision that all of our students would be accepted to a college, that 80% of them would enroll in some kind of post-secondary training, and that all of them would attend school more than 90% of the time — I watched the faces of my students, expecting the usual push-back, disinterest, or defiance, but what I saw was a collective subtle nod, an acceptance of this reality, and (an at least temporary) buy in.

Now, don’t be mistaken. I still saw seniors struggling to stay off their phones. I still had one student who, when I mentioned that we would be filling out the FAFSA together, stood up from his desk and said, “I ain’t doing that.” I still had at least one student who proclaimed his main post-secondary goal to be “making music”. It was a room full of high school seniors after all, but something felt different.

While our community regularly struggles with chronic absenteeism, the majority of my students attended all four days last week — even though the temps did crawl into the nineties and both my classroom and the busses were stiflingly hot. Not only that, all of my students made eye contact with me this week. All of my students, even on day one, responded to my call for attention. All of my students participated in gatherings, like the one below, where I asked them to stand and move to the four corners of the room to demonstrate their preferences and interests.

And all of my students participated in the making of our class contract, and when asked, every single student in my class stood up and signed their name in agreement to our class norms.

Some teachers may not think this is a big deal. Perhaps they get 100% buy in on every activity they do in their classrooms, but this has not been the case for me. Not since Covid. Not in my little charter school in Detroit. Not with seniors. Not in this demographic that has historically and recently suffered so much.

In the past few years, it has taken me quite a bit of time to build the relationships and trust that lead to this kind of engagement. When I first started at this school, I was some middle-aged white lady from Ann Arbor — how could I have any idea of what life was like on the other side of the zoom camera where an adolescent Black student sat on her bedroom floor trying to figure out what a URL was and how she was going to move from one zoom room to the other.

The following year, my giddiness at finally getting to be “in the flesh” with students was met with distrust, apprehension, and the layers of protectiveness that Covid and generations of systemic racism had produced. My students were stand-offish, skittish, and surly. It was well into the second semester before I had any meaningful relationships.

Last year, it took less time to build trust with most, but some still refused to engage for the entire year. Yes, the entire year.

So when I got 100% opting in on the first day last week, I was a little stunned.

I was even more surprised on Thursday when I collected the student survey I had handed out and started to read the vulnerable responses to my question: What are you concerned about as you start this year?

Do I have enough credits to graduate? Will I be able to fill out the FAFSA if I’m undocumented? Will I be able to stay focused?

I was in awe of their transparency with their answers to my question: What do you want me to know about you?

English is not my first language. I get mad easily. I am a hard worker. I am funny. I hate school.

And I was touched by their responses to my question, How can I support you this year?

Push me. Help me understand. Explain things when I am confused. Be patient with me.

I’ve just finished the first week of school and I know more about this year’s seniors than I have known about many of the grads for the last three years. Why is this? Is it a sign that the trauma from Covid is waning? Is this just a more self-aware and confident group? Have I been in this school long enough that I have built a reputation of being one who can be trusted? Or is this just evidence that God’s grace is flooding my classroom?

Perhaps it’s some of all of that, but I am not going to look away. I am sensing a rare opportunity with this group. It is smaller than any senior class I have ever had, and they have already opened themselves up so much. I am sensing that we just might become a little family, and I am here for it.

So pray for me, if you would. Pray that I would truly see these students, that I would hear them, and that I would be willing to share with them what I know about the English language, of course, but more importantly what I know about life, about vulnerability, and about change.

Because guys, one thing I know about people who are willing to open themselves up is that they are on the verge of transformation, and I am going to have a front row seat.

What types of changes do I think I’ll see? I’m not sure of all of them, but I have already told my students several times this week that “this is the year when we make the transition from childhood to adulthood.” And for many of these students that is more true than I know. One just had a baby. Some will move straight into the military. Some will go straight to work. And even those who are moving on to more education in college will be shifting to a world that they have never seen before — one where the students around them will be from vastly different backgrounds, one where they won’t necessarily be near the family they have been used to, one where they are going to feel potentially more vulnerable than they have ever felt before.

So the fact that they are already willing to bare a small bit of themselves to me gives me a lot of hope that they will be ready for all the change that is coming at them, and because of that I am sitting on the edge of my front row seat.

I will see the goodness of God in the land of the living.

Psalm 27:13