Category: teaching

Process(ing)

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

We’re two weeks away from Christmas Break, and I’m having my seniors write a personal essay. This essay could be used for a variety of purposes — to submit with a college application, to enter a scholarship contest, or simply to explore one’s own identity.

The students read and analyze several models, we practice using sensory language, and then we prepare to write. The first step is to choose from a variety of prompts such as “describe a time when you overcame a challenge” or “tell us about a time you stepped up as a leader”. Then, I direct them to identify a trait they want their reader to recognize in them. Are they hardworking? resilient? creative?

The big lift comes next. Students must respond to the prompt they have chosen while also displaying the strength they have selected by describing a scene — a snapshot or highlight tape — from their lives in which they have embodied that characteristic.

As has been my practice for going on twenty years, I write alongside my students, modeling my process for them in real time so that a) they can see an “expert” at work, b) they can see that even “experts” struggle and fumble, and c) so that they can acknowledge that even for “experts” the writing process is messy, laborious, and non-linear.

This past week, I was doing that modeling when I wrote about the time almost 10 (TEN!) years ago when I left my classroom in St. Louis convinced that I would likely never teach — at least not in a high school — again. I was reading this highlight tape to my students, describing how I tearfully carried a milk crate out of my room, and they looked at me with blank faces. What was I talking about that I might never teach again? I’m standing right in front of them — teaching! — and I’ve been in this classroom since they were freshmen. Was this story supposed to be fiction?

And, you know, sometimes I start to believe it is — maybe I wasn’t really that sick. Maybe I didn’t need to step away from my work. Maybe I don’t have symptoms right now. Maybe I’ve made it all up.

I was feeling that way last night. It was my youngest daughter’s and my youngest granddaughter’s birthday yesterday. I was on the phone wishing my daughter a happy birthday, struggling to sustain a conversation after 5pm on a Friday, “Happy birthday! What did you do today?” She shared how she had spent her day and asked what we were up to this weekend. I explained that her father had travelled to Cincinnati for her niece’s birthday, but that I didn’t have the gas in the tank to go.

“Oh? What do you mean?”

“I just find that in December I have very little margin to do something like a weekend trip.”

“Oh, why? Is it because it is the end of the semester and you have a lot of papers to grade?”

“Well,” I struggled to articulate the thing I have been trying to articulate for going on 10 years — that it doesn’t matter if I have a pile of papers in front of me or not, I am just on E, and E won’t get me to Cincinnati.

The same thing happened when I was FaceTime-ing with my six year old granddaughter. My husband called from Cincinnati to let me watch her open her gifts. She was sitting in her Grogu chair grinning and talking as she tore the paper. The rest of her grandparents, other family members, and some friends would be there soon for a party with pizza, butterfly decorations, and, of course, a purple cake. I watched, smiling, but internally I was interrogating myself, “Seriously, you couldn’t find it in you to go to Cincinnati for one weekend? It’s your granddaughter’s birthday!”

I do this sometimes, I question whether I really need the weekend at home, or if I am just being selfish.

I logically know the answer — even without 4 hours in the car, a change in routine, sleeping in a different bed, and the drain of social interactions, I woke up this morning with a splitting headache and an electric/IcyHot heat in all of my joints from my toes to my neck. During this time of year, it takes a whole weekend to recover from a week in the classroom. I will spend a couple hours this morning writing, then I will go for a long walk followed by an epsom salt bath. Hours might be spent reading a novel or watching The Crown, and I’ll have to somehow fit in about an hour of prep time so that I’m ready to teach my students on Monday. Sunday is more rest — Zoom time with our small group followed by worship and another long walk, followed by more writing and resting, and prepping for the start of the week.

When I interrupt that rhythm, like I did over Thanksgiving, I walk into Monday less resilient than I need to be — I am more likely to be reactive, I am less likely to be on my A game. I will likely miss things — like a small cue that someone is angry and tempted to fight, that another is sad and needs someone to listen, or that my room is too hot or too cold or that someone in my room didn’t get breakfast or lunch. I will be more likely to get an inflammatory issue like pain behind my eye or a headache or extreme fatigue that has me wondering how I drove myself home.

While I can occasionally take the risk and do something social on the weekend, it is really best if I stick to the routine which means saying no to fun opportunities like a whirlwind trip to Cincinnati.

You might ask if I should continue teaching if it costs me weekends with a granddaughter or my parents or our friends? The answer is still yes, absolutely yes.

For one thing, I will see that granddaughter and her sister in three weeks. That doesn’t make up for missing her birthday, of course, but I do get time with both of our grand girls on a fairly regular basis. We FaceTime and send letters, and, honestly, their lives are busy, too. I miss them, but I’m not sure I would see them more if I wasn’t teaching.

And, the reason I continue in the role I have now is because it gives me life. Leaving my classroom in June of 2014 was only slightly less than devastating because my autoimmune disease is absolutely real — I was flaring so badly in that season that I could barely function. I would have never left the classroom if there was any other option.

The six months that I was unemployed and the slow crawl back was a very difficult time. In my mind I was sick, compromised, washed-up, old, past my prime. As I regained my health, as I gradually built more teaching back into my life, I regained confidence and a sense of purpose.

I am not a perfect teacher — I don’t always have the most engaging activities or the cutest classroom decor. I sometimes lose my sense of humor, overuse sarcasm, and fail to give students the one-on-one attention they deserve. Despite all that, I am my best self when I am connected to education, for now that means in the classroom, particularly a high school classroom, especially in a context where I can call out injustice and work to bring a more equitable experience for my students.

When I get to spend my days being the best version of myself, I get more moments of sharing that best version with the people that I love — my husband, my children, and my grandchildren. For a few years there, I think that much of what they got from me was shrouded in self-doubt, self-pity, and an overwhelming sense that I was past my prime.

On Monday, I’ll share my second highlight tape with my seniors, the scene where I carry my items back into the classroom I work in now. I’ll share a glimpse at the slow crawl back, but I’ll focus on the triumphant return. Then I will prod, cajole, and cheer them as they write their own highlight tapes. I’ll nudge them to add more sensory detail, I’ll celebrate their risk-taking, and I’ll gently introduce MLA format and model Standard Academic English norms. I’ll do my best to help them finish strong.

Then, near the end of December, I’ll take a break to catch my breath, and then I’ll pack my bag and head to the land of grand girls where we’ll snuggle, do crafts, eat yummy foods, watch movies, and giggle. I’ll tell them how proud I am when they read hard words and ask good questions — they’ll get the imperfectly best version of me because that is what I am right now.

And for this I am thankful.

give thanks in all circumstances…”

1 Thessalonians 5:18

Of Power and Vulnerability

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

We’re seven weeks into this school year, and I’m not sure who is learning more — me or my students.

This is always the case, of course, but I continue to be amazed. You would think that since I am fifty-seven years old, and my students are mere teenagers, that my maturity, at least, would exceed theirs. In some ways it does, for sure, but they are teaching me to receive feedback and to alter my approach.

Now, they don’t necessarily know they are doing this — they aren’t setting goals, writing lesson plans, or assessing my progress. No. They are just navigating their lives in the best ways that they know how, but when our paths cross, they are not afraid to give me the feedback that I need.

And I am not too stubborn to receive it. Not any more.

Recently, I was trying to get started with my fourth hour class — they come to me straight from lunch, and my expectation is that they would just walk in, grab their materials, sit down, and be ready to engage with learning. Yes, I do see, as I type those words that my expectations border on lunacy. For one, any teenager coming straight from lunch might be transitioning from a fun conversation with peers, from an attempt to engage with a person of romantic interest, or from a mild or moderate altercation with a staff member. To expect them to instantly shed those interactions and be fully engaged in English Language Arts is, although an appropriate academic posture, probably not entirely sensitive to adolescent development.

And I know that, and I prepare for it. Each period, I plan a “gathering” — some short activity to pull us all together. For example, I might display a slide showing that October 23 is National TV Talk Show Host Day and then ask my students, “if you could be interviewed by any TV Talk Show Host, who would it be, and what would you want to talk about?”

We might take a few minutes to discuss and laugh in an attempt to build a classroom culture and foster engagement before I try to deftly transition into the goals for the day.

On this recent day, the one I was starting to tell you about, I could tell that the majority of my students were not with me. I was having a hard time getting everyone to find their seats, to put their phones away, and to engage with our gathering. So, in the “kick butts and take names” fashion that I learned somewhere along the way, I started moving around the classroom in my ‘large and in charge’ type of way in an attempt to get them settled in.

I narrowed my proximity. I bantered with students, interjecting myself into their conversations, and trying to overpower them into submission. This strategy might have worked once upon a time, but my current students are not having it. The power play does not work with them. I know this, but on this particular day, I was frustrated enough with their lack of attention that I reverted to the muscle memory of raising my voice, getting an attitude, and using language that is not typically mine.

My students’ response? They kept doing what they were doing — they were unbothered — until the language that came out of my mouth elicited a “Whoa, Mrs. Rathje, you can’t say that,” and then the room went quiet. And I knew the student was right. My language had crossed a boundary. I had gotten their attention, for sure, but not in the way that I wanted.

I backpedaled.

“You’re right. That was inappropriate. I think I am feeling frustrated because we don’t seem ready to get started. But that is no excuse. I apologize. Can we start over?”

The room quieted, but some of the respect that I had spent weeks building inside of this space, had crumbled beneath my feet, and I instantly knew I would have to do some rebuilding. Nevertheless, my duty to instruction prevailed, and I began with our lesson. Just as we were finding our rhythm, one of my students jumped up and said, “Mrs. Rathje, I gotta take this call,” as she speedily went to the hallway.

Well, that irritated me, but I kept moving with the students whose minimal attention I was holding and then met her at the door when she returned.


“You can’t just walk out of class, ” I said, my attitude re-engaged, “You haven’t been here all week, and now that you’re back, you just jump up and take a phone call?”

I think I expected her to say, “You’re right. I’m sorry,” but instead, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “I am feeling a certain kind of way because of how you are talking to me. The reason I have been missing school is because I was at a party last weekend where my cousin was killed.”

I put my hands up in quiet surrender and took a step back.

“Wow. I didn’t know that. Thank you for telling me. You are right. I didn’t need to give you any attitude. I apologize. I am glad you are here. Will you let me know if there is anything I can do?”

“I will. Thank you.”

Sheesh! Twice inside of twenty minutes, I had had to apologize for defaulting to a power play and my students were the ones who gave me the feedback that allowed me to check myself and try a different way. I thought I was the one who was supposed to be doing that for them.

Each day, I have to remind myself that I am not the center of the universe; the behavior of my students is not directed at me. They are dealing with all kinds of things. For example, not one, not two, but three of my students reported “my aunt just died” this week! I have got students who are homeless, some who work over twenty hours a week, and some who are earning money to help their families pay the bills. I’ve got students who have family in jail or who are on probation themselves. I’ve got students whose families do not have a vehicle and can’t come to get them in the middle of the day if they are suddenly sick or injured or overwhelmed by the amount of loss in their lives.

And these are the things I know about. Many of the struggles my students face are too private to share.

So, instead of being annoyed when my students don’t walk in on time and enthusiastic for learning, I need to be curious.

What is going on that has everyone distracted today? I noticed you weren’t at school for several days, is everything ok? I can see that you are preoccupied with your phone — are you just caught up in scrolling? or is it deeper than that?

I don’t need to have an attitude. Asking a simple question can provide my students with the feedback that might allow them to a) provide me with information that explains what’s going on or b) check themselves and try a different way.

Life is complex and English Language Arts aren’t the top priority for a student who is reeling from crisis. However, it is my job to share the value of learning ELA for the purpose of having strong communication skills, succeeding in postsecondary learning, and for being prepared for future employment. I need to be compassionate in regard to my students’ reality while also engaging them in learning and holding them accountable to meet the learning standards that will give them access to spaces beyond my classroom.

It’s a big job. And sometimes I get tired, and I blow it.

However, I am noticing that the class of 2024 doesn’t have any trouble holding me accountable. They are not afraid to say, “Mrs. Rathje, you can’t say that.” or “I don’t like the way you are coming at me.” or “Mrs. Rathje, are you doing ok?” They are modeling for me the ways that might be appropriate to hold them accountable!

And, if I’m not too consumed with being in control, if I’m brave enough, I might just model for them the ways that they can respond to my feedback.

You’re right, that was harsh. Did that sound sarcastic? I apologize. Guys, can I be honest — I’m not feeling the best today. Can I just take a minute to gather myself? Can you all cut me some slack?

I love these kids so much, and I am so impressed by their ability to notice that something doesn’t feel right and, in that moment, to say something. In this way, they are worlds ahead of me. They are brave, and I want to honor their bravery in a way that seems counterintuitive — I want to be vulnerable.

Brene Brown in Atlas of the Heart says: ” In a world where perfectionism, pleasing, and proving are used as armor to protect our egos and our feelings, it takes a lot of courage to show up and be all in when we can’t control the outcome. It also takes discipline and self-awareness to understand what to share and with whom. Vulnerability is not oversharing, it’s sharing with people who have earned the right to hear our stories and our experiences” (14).

If what I’m trying to do is build transformative relationships with my students, what better way do I have than modeling vulnerability — welcoming feedback, admitting I was wrong, saying I’m sorry, and moving forward in a way that honors the humanity of the people in front of me.

Back in the early days of my teaching, the old pros used to advise us to “not smile before Thanksgiving.” Their philosophy was that teachers had to be hard asses for the first quarter if they wanted to maintain control of their classrooms. For many it worked.

But I’m not interested in control.

I’m in education because I have an insufferable belief in transformation, and in my experience, I have to let go of my need to control in order to create the space in which change is possible.

I can’t create that space through force. I need to be willing to step back — to be the one to create an opening.

If my students are brave enough to hold me accountable, I’m going to be brave enough to try a different way..

Do not conform to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”

Romans 12:2

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.

Supporting Change

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

In a little over a week, I’ll be standing at the door to my classroom, waiting to greet my new students. I have seniors for English Language Arts, and I’ll also have one section each of sophomores and juniors for the reading intervention I lead.

For the past few weeks I’ve been analyzing my scope and sequence, reviewing my summative assessments, and examining data from last year. Last week I met with colleagues to plan and prepare. This week I’ll be in my classroom arranging desks, putting up decor, and finalizing my lesson plans.

As I move closer and closer to being with my students, I am beginning to wonder what their summer has been like.

Mine was filled with family, wedding preparation, food, celebration, and time in the garden, with friends, and in long, luxurious reading sessions.

To be honest, with all the activity around here, I haven’t given much thought to what my students have been up to.

Have some of them had summer jobs? Have others been responsible to care for younger siblings at home?

Have they spent time with their friends or family?

Have they had plenty to eat? Have they been safe? Have they suffered a loss?

Are they ready to come back to our building — to the predictability, the routine, the familiar faces?

Do they have what they need to feel comfortable walking through those doors on day one?

I don’t know.

What I do know is that we’re changing things up for our students this year, and change is hard. When teachers learned last week that we’d changed from a block schedule (four 100-minute periods a day) to a traditional schedule (seven 50-minute periods a day), there was some scuttlebutt in the room. The rhythm in the building will be different — students will get up and move every hour, and seven times a day the halls will be teeming with the entire student body. The goal? That each student will interact with each of their teachers every day.

Ultimately, the change will benefit both teachers and students. Our data shows us that our students need more “at-bats” — they need to touch math every day, practice language arts principles every day, and get micro doses of science each day. We moved to the block schedule during Covid to simplify virtual instruction — to give teachers more time with each class to get connected, to build a sense of community, and to be able to touch base with each of the students within the confines of the zoom room. When we returned to in-person learning, we kept the block schedule to minimize the amount of change that our teachers and students were managing. We remained in the block schedule last year, but as June rolled around and the data came in — low attendance, low test scores, low family engagement — we had to take a look at making some changes.

We’ve got to see our students every day. We’ve got to build a stronger sense of community and belonging. We’ve got to strengthen connections with our families, to clearly convey the fact that we want their students to succeed — in high school, but more importantly, beyond high school. We’ve got to build strong relationships so that our students and their families can see the why of education — the possibilities it provides, the doors it opens.

And in order for our students and families to be able to buy in, they need to be able to trust us — their teachers, their staff, their administrators — they need to see that we are for them, and that can only happen over time and with plenty of reps.

The good news is that we have a strong, committed staff. We routinely retain over 90% of our teachers. Inside an environment like ours — one with 100% free and reduced lunch, 99% students of color, and a history of educational inequity — this kind of loyalty is rare. Our teachers function like a family — one that cares wildly for its kids.

These teachers and administrators, seeing the data and recognizing the work it would take to reconfigure their instructional plans into a different model, took a collective deep breath and got busy. They want their “babies” to have what they need — mastery of content, success in the classroom, an opportunity to move beyond the high school to other worlds they have not yet dreamed of. And because of that, they are willing to do the hard work — not only of reconfiguring their plans, but of communicating their buy-in to a few hundred teenagers who will likely have some opinions about this change.

I can see it now. I’ll be standing at my door next week wearing the stupid grin I always wear on the first day back to school — man I love love school! — and the students will start showing up at my door.

“Mrs. Rathje, what’s up with this schedule?”

“We’ve got seven classes every day?!”

“Ya’all doing too much!”

“I’m already ready to go back home!”

It’s the sound of discomfort around change. They had pictured what this first school day would look like, but when they arrived, reality didn’t match expectations. And if you’ve lived through some trauma, which most of our students have, the unexpected can be unsettling. So, I’ll want to hear my students. I’ll want to acknowledge that they are experiencing something new, and I’ll want to assure them that everything will be ok.

“Yes. The schedule is different this year. Yes. We’ve got seven classes every day. Yes. It’s going to feel like a lot for a minute. And, yes, I am sure you feel like going home. Let’s look at your schedule together. What period do you think you’ll enjoy the most? What time do you have lunch? When will I see you each day?”

I’ll want to come beside my students. I’ll want to let them know that although change can be intimidating, it can also bring a freshness, a new outlook, an opportunity for something different.

They won’t believe me right away. Life has taught the students of today to be wary — to be suspicious — to anticipate the other shoe to drop. So, I’ll have to encourage them to hang in there, to give it a try, to go through the motions, to watch and see.

They’ll grumble, but most will find a seat. They’ll engage in whatever silly gathering activity I lead them through, some rolling their eyes and exuding disinterest or annoyance. I’ll reward any tiny glimpse of compliance, engagement, or cooperation, and I’ll work hard to call each student by name beginning on the very first day. I’ll share my interests with them by showing this slide:

Then I’ll invite them to make something similar to share with the class. Some will love the opportunity to have the spotlight. Others will beg me to let them just show me — not the rest of the class.

I’ll begin to see who my students are, and they will begin to see me. That will be the start — of relationship, of trust, of finding a space in which to learn and grow.

My students might be uncomfortable with change — most of us are — but this teacher has been through enough change to know that possibility lives on the other side. I won’t get it all right, but hopefully I can be a reassuring voice as we move through this change together.

I’ll let you know how it turns out, of course, and I would love your prayers and encouragement along the way.

Therefore encourage one another and build up one another, just as you also are doing.

I Thessalonians 5:11

*If you are able, support or encourage a teacher in your life. If you would like to support me and my students, email me at krathje66@gmail.com and I’ll send you my wishlist.

Stepping Away

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

For the past few months, I’ve been motoring through — plan, teach, grade then drive home, cook, laundry, sleep– on repeat day after day after day. I’ve been managing to fit in a few pages of scrawl every morning followed by a little bit of yoga and a walk (or two) with my work buddy each day. I’ve cleared the garden to get ready for spring planting, and I’m bracing myself for the onslaught of Spring events that have already positioned themselves on the calendar — senior this and faculty that.

It’s a regular type of busy but I find myself wiped out and a little bit irritable — especially with my students.

I prepare what I think is a home run lesson and my seniors wander into my room, as seniors often do — late, loud, and with little interest in the activity that I have planned. And, rather than doing what excellent teachers do to engage them — demonstrating the relevance of the work or connecting with something they are interested in — I get annoyed that they are being who they are — teenagers on the verge of graduation. And, I show them who I am — a teacher who is tired of the routine and just as ready as they are to be finished.

In the moment, I expect them to bend to my will — I fuss, I stomp, I sling demands, I utter my frustration. And, not shockingly, I am ineffective. Which just makes me more annoyed.

And because I’m motoring along, I don’t take the time to pause, to step away, to reflect. Instead, my frustration bubbles into tantrum, and I walk out of a classroom full of seniors, taking a lap of the building to calm myself down. Other staff step into my abandoned room and berate my students for doing whatever it was that set off “the most experienced teacher in the building”. My stunned students sit silently. I walk back in and do my best to salvage anything that is left of the hour.

Yikes.

It happens to the best of us. We lose our shit because we haven’t acknowledged the warning flags. We haven’t taken a step away. That is why we have to anticipate our need to step away — to schedule it in before our shit has been lost.

Every year for the past eight or nine years, I have met at a hotel with a hundred or so other women (pastors’ wives all) who carve out a few days from their also busy routines to step away, laugh, sing, and pray. Every year in January, when the registration materials come, I question why it’s so important for me to get away with this group of women that I see just once a year. Why do I want to spend the time and money to hole up in a hotel room, to sit at a table, to participate in corny mixer games, to disrupt my routine? I drag my feet, but typically sometime in late February, I remind myself (or one of my friends gives a nudge) that I always come away feeling refreshed, fed, and typically somehow shifted.

Last Friday, the day after I abandoned my classroom, I packed up my things at the end of the day and headed north. After two hours of driving, I dropped my things in my room, put a comb through my hair, and meandered down to our meeting room.

A cannabis dealer was set up outside our space (the display made complete by an 18 inch stuffed phallus). All of us — women aged early 20s to mid 80s — had to traverse the wares to find one another, and perhaps because of that, we met with laughter, disarmed, ready to embrace and lean into relaxation.

Almost immediately during the ice breaker game “two truths and a lie” I found myself blurting out a true confession to a table full of women (some of whom I barely know) that I had recently told a roomful of seniors that they were behaving like assholes. And not one of the pastors’ wives gasped in horror. Instead they laughed. Someone said, “well, they probably were behaving like assholes”. They normalized my frustration. They accepted me.

Throughout the weekend, I found friend after friend — some I have known for decades, others I’d met just once or twice before. In clusters of two or three or ten, we shared our lives with one another — affirming, listening, empathizing, smiling, laughing. We drank coffee and tea as we leaned into scripture. We sipped wine and noshed on cheese and crackers as we laughed late into the night.

I was so relaxed. I wasn’t really anticipating a major shift to happen during this weekend. I was mostly glad that I had the time to connect with friends instead of managing my regular responsibilities. I got myself busy on a project one of the women had brought to share — crocheting plastic grocery bags into sleeping mats to be given to people who are experiencing housing insecurity — and figured I would coast through the Bible study in typical fashion.

Why I thought that, I have no idea, because almost without fail the Bible study portion of this event, which is all of Saturday morning, a little of Saturday afternoon, with a finish on Sunday morning, is where much of what I have been experiencing in my personal life gets clarified.

Our leader, a veteran pastors’ wife, accomplished scholar, and down-to-earth friend, led us into a journey with Peter, disciple of Jesus, who though faithful and passionate, sometimes ignored the warning signs and occasionally lost his shit. We saw him walk on water, then sink. We saw him speaking with Jesus, and then, when the stakes were so high, denying him.

After we had journeyed with Peter, Jesus, and the Disciples all morning, and I had made substantial ground on my crocheting project, our leader asked us to turn to Psalm 51. She led us through lectio divina, a scripture reading practice wherein you read the passage, circle what stands out to you, reflect as you read it again, respond by writing freely about the words you had circled, and then rest in silence for several minutes. I set my crocheting aside and leaned in. I was stunned by what I found. As I moved through the process, and wrote out my thoughts, I remembered the story of my last several years — how God had restored me, upheld me, renewed me, and sustained me. I acknowledged that in spite of that story, I regularly try to return (especially with my students) to my soldiering ways. I try to plan perfection, to demand compliance, and to ensure my own success.

I sat in silence.

Next, our leader taught us a strategy called a “breath prayer”. She urged us to use some of the words from our earlier writing to craft a prayer that we could say in one breath when we are overwhelmed, or stressed, or perhaps, I thought, in moments when I am about to tell a classroom full of students that they are acting like assholes. The words fell immediately on the page: Father, you have restored me and upheld me, and I will praise you.

It seems we were soon packing our things, hugging goodbye, and climbing back in our cars.

And it wasn’t long before I found myself in front of the very group of students who I had grown frustrated with the week before. They weren’t miraculously changed. They were still seniors on the brink of graduation — falling asleep, scrolling on their phones, talking to one another, asking to use the bathroom while I was in the middle of presenting a perfectly prepared lesson.

But I had shifted — not perfectly, not permanently — but I was somehow standing differently in the front of my classroom. I breathed my prayer several times that first day: Father, you have restored me and upheld me, and I will praise you. I stood a little lighter. I spoke a little gentler. And perhaps, just perhaps, a few more students engaged in learning than had done so the week before.

However, later in the week, I was again feeling fatigued and frustrated. I started to hear myself say sarcastically, “You go ahead, stay on your phone while I’m presenting the lesson, just don’t come ask me for support when you’re doing your work.” Yeah, it was another warning flag. Time to get some rest over the weekend. Time to practice my breath prayer. Time to step away.

I think this is why I am insufferably obsessed with restoration — because I keep seeing it over and over again in my life. I lose my shit, God drowns me in his grace, and I am given an opportunity to shift — to find a different way.

And often, the opportunity to shift presents itself when I find the time to step away — to slow down, to gather with people who love me, to reflect on what has been happening, and to realize what really is true.

I did that again today — with the small group my husband and I meet with weekly. We shared the struggles and joys of our week, we acknowledged with amazement all that we have seen each other through, and we reminded one another of the relentless grace and mercy of God.

It’s the refreshing breath I needed so that I could head into this week with the prayer on my lips: I have been restored and upheld, and for that, I will praise Him.

What World do We Live In? Part 2

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

**I wrote a piece called “What World Are We Living In” in the fall of 2020 when I first started commuting from Ann Arbor to Detroit to teach in a small charter school and began to daily witness the disparity between the two communities. The following post grew out of an experience I had last week in another school district.

Last Wednesday, instead of driving to Detroit first thing in the morning, I drove to Oakland County to participate in a day of professional development along with a dozen other teachers who use the Adolescent Accelerated Reading Intervention. I’ve been using the program for a little over a semester, with great results, but I have been aware that I might not be crossing all my t’s and dotting all my i’s. Having the opportunity to be a fly on the wall of two separate classrooms as other teachers implemented this intervention would hopefully help me see what I’ve been missing.

The beginning of my commute looked largely the same as it does on my daily trip to Detroit — interstate highway merging onto surface streets. However, I noted that while my regular route takes me past fast food, gas stations, minimarts, and older working class neighborhoods, this route into Oakland County took me past Starbucks, Trader Joes, and nicer restaurants before it led me through residential sections with large suburban homes. And then, when I took the final turn, I saw the school where I would begin the day.

It was a sprawling two-story building on a large piece of property surrounded by multiple well-lit and freshly-lined parking lots. I found a spot, grabbed my stuff, and made my way to the guest entrance at the front of the building. I approached a door, pushed a button, and looked into the camera before I was buzzed in to a glass-enclosed foyer.

There, a staff member/gatekeeper looked me over and buzzed me through the second door. She knew why I was there and directed me to room “two-oh-something or other”.

“Which way is that?” I asked.

“Up those stairs and follow the signs.”

I walked up the open carpeted stairway in the expansive atrium to the second floor, also carpeted, and found the group of teachers already in conversation.

They sat in a semicircle in the [also] carpeted classroom. I found a seat in the back of the room in a bar stool height chair next to a tall table. The students had not yet arrived, and the teachers were discussing what was on the agenda for the class this day — one of the final steps of reading a book in the AARI program, mapping the text.

I heard the bell ring in the hallway, and the students started coming in, finding their resources in a strategically placed filing system, then making their way to the table where I was sitting. I relocated myself and began to observe.

Right away I noticed a t I hadn’t been crossing when I looked at the big piece of butcher paper where they had started their text map. My students and I had mapped our own text the day before, and it looked somewhat similar to, if noticeably messier than, the one I was looking at, but there was one big difference — ours was written all in black on white paper. The map in this classroom was color-coded to illustrate its organization — sections of the book written in sequential order were outlined in pink, those written in a compare/contrast format were outlined in green, etc. I mentally thunked my forehead with my palm and said, “the colors! why do I always forget the colors!” And then I noticed the posters hung on the wall in this spacious classroom. At both the front and the back of the room, the teacher had full-color posters representing each of the eight text structures. Oh, I’d like to have those, I thought. If I had full color posters in my classroom instead of the black-and-white print outs I have, I might remember to use the color coding system!

One teacher asked, “Where did you get the posters?”

“Oh, I just printed them on our poster printer!”

Oh, I thought, they have a poster printer.

The class functioned mostly as my class does. The teacher had seven students around the table; one was absent. I have ten on my roster right now; typically one is absent. She used the socratic questioning that I use, and her students engaged as much as mine do, if slightly more politely, but then again, when I had a guest in my room last semester, my students were on their A game, too.

The second building was a literal carbon copy of the first, down to the same double buzzered entryway and carpeted stairs. We gathered in a classroom that “isn’t currently being utilized” where we found flexible seating — restaurant like booths, chairs on wheels at tables, and the one I chose, a rocking pod-like chair, where I noticed I could quietly shift my weight and stay better engaged in the discussion we were having before our second observation. Wow, I thought, I have some students who would benefit from chairs like these.

When the bell rang, we walked down the hall where our second teacher met us at the door and invited us first into her classroom and then across the hall to another room that “isn’t currently being utilized” so that she and her students could map their text.

Like me, she had a projection system where she displayed a slide that she used for her gathering — the time when we engage with our students to set the climate and build community. Her students were seated, much like mine are, around the room at desks. The difference I saw was, again, the carpeted floor, the colorful text-structure posters, and stacks of resources in every corner of the room.

In the room across the hall, we again found flexible seating — bar-height chairs with optional attached desks, lower seats on wheels, and one other form of desk-like seating. Again, full-color posters on the wall illustrating each of the text structures and some key questions to ask during the AARI process.

The students again were on their A-game, and I wondered if that was the case every day, even when they didn’t have a dozen teacher-y observers. I mean, what would get in the way of their learning in an environment like this?

As I drove home, I continued wondering, why do these schools look so different from my school? Why do students in Oakland County walk into a brand spanking new building every morning, pick what kind of chair works best for them, experience the warmth of carpeting, the advantage of full-color visual aids, and, when it’s hot outside, the benefit of air conditioning, while my students just thirty minutes down the road are bussed onto a crumbling parking lot, walk into an aging building with an inadequate gym, some windows that open and some that don’t, no air conditioning, no rooms that “aren’t currently being utilized”, one seating option whether it is appealing or not, and a jillion other obstacles to learning on any given day.

Is it just a case of money?

I spent some time this morning trying to figure out Michigan’s formula for school funding that might explain this disparity — why one child’s experience is so different from another’s when they both reside in the same state. But guys, I don’t understand the model.

It’s complicated and based on per student funding from the state, property taxes, income taxes, and even cigarette taxes! Low-income (and underperforming) districts like mine are supposed to get supplemental funding from the state — which is earmarked, but historically not always allocated. And even when it is allocated, why are most Detroit schools in disrepair, lacking in resources, and understaffed when schools in higher income districts are well maintained, richly resourced, and fully staffed with high quality instructors?

Why do they get the cool rocking pod chairs and my students don’t?

Is it because those students deserve better?

No! All students deserve better! Yet these disparities continue to exist — for going on centuries now.

And why?

The simple answer is systemic racism — in education, yes, but also in real estate, in health care, in hiring, in so many sectors of our society. It’s the historical practice of separating those who have from those who don’t to ensure that those who have will always have and those that don’t never will. And the remedy is anything but simple. It begins with recognizing that selfishness and greed have created the structures in our country that enable some to have a lovely experience and to guarantee that others do not.

Now, if you are in the camp that thinks I am completely off base and that the difference in schools is sheer economics and not based in historical racism at all, I ask you why the establishment is so up in arms about our students learning African American history or looking at history through the lens of Critical Race Theory? If there is nothing there to see, why not let our kids take a look for themselves? Maybe you’d like to take a look for yourself. If so, I recommend you check out the 1619 Project* which is available through The New York Times, on Apple podcasts, or in video form on Hulu. And if you still think I’m out of my mind, come spend a day with me at my school. Get to know my students and decide for yourself if you think they deserve more.

Yes, I feel pretty strongly about this.

It probably won’t come as a surprise that my seniors and I just finished learning about systemic inequities in preparation for reading Trevor Noah’s Born a Crime, where we see through the lens of his experience the structural racism of Apartheid and how it impacted his childhood experience. We learned terms like unconscious bias, prejudice, racism, and systemic racism, and my students created posters to illustrate disparities in health care, generational wealth, criminal justice, and education.

When I returned to my students on Thursday and we started our class with a review of terms, I saw that not everyone understood that Apartheid was like the systemic racism we see in the US. In order to help them fully make the connection, I asked them to recall examples of where we experience inequities in our community. As they started to list them off, I told them about my experience in the Oakland Schools.

I wondered if it was necessary — to point out the details I had experienced. Would I be rubbing it in their faces?

But then I thought, Don’t they deserve to know what the experience of students 30 minutes away is like? especially as we prepare to read this book? especially since some of them are about to go to college and may study beside some of these very students who are walking carpeted hallways, sitting in rocking pods, and enjoying an air conditioned full-sized gym? (Let alone taking AP classes, music, and other electives we are unable to offer.)

I described what I had seen, and I could see their faces register the reality — the reality that their experience is not equal to the students I observed just 24 hours before.

“This is educational inequity,” I said. “It is one aspect of systemic racism. And why do you suppose it’s not easy to change?”

“Because,” one student answered, “it’s part of so many systems — not just education. And they don’t want it to change.”

“Who doesn’t want it to change?”

“The people in power.”

“Yes.” I gulped. “I suppose you are right. The people in power don’t want it to change.”

Pretty astute observation for a kid from Detroit? No. Kids from Detroit have this down, folks. They understand disparity; it’s the world they live in.

And the people in power can do something to change it. We are the people in power, my friends — people who vote, people in education, people in the church, white people — we can make choices that begin to make a difference for my students and their children and grandchildren. If we do nothing, this pattern will continue for more generations, and we shouldn’t be ok with that.

It’s not enough to fight for what’s best for our kids; we have to do what’s best for all kids.

As we established in my last post, I have “an insufferable belief in restoration.” The first step in restoration is acknowledging that our stuff is broken down, dilapidated, and no longer working, so I’m gonna keep talking about what’s broken to those who have the power and resources to fix it.

I hope you’ll start talking (and doing something) about it, too.


Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, When it is in your power to do it.

Proverbs 3:27

*The 1619 Project is one of many places to start learning about historical systemic racism in the United States. For a list of other resources check out Harvard’s Racial Justice, Racial Equity, and Antiracism Reading List.

The Art of the No

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

You know that time during the pandemic, when I was working full-time from home and I was outraged by the killing of George Floyd, and I felt called to go back to the classroom to return to fighting for educational equity? Do you remember how I’d been recovering from a major health crisis for almost six years and I felt I had finally arrived at a place of health that would support my return to this work?

Do you remember the first year — the fully virtual year where I sat in an empty classroom zooming with students I had never met in the flesh, students who may or may not have turned on their cameras to let me see their faces? Do you remember how giddy I was, how energized, how I found the work almost easy because I could get it all done within my scheduled work day and still have some space for self-care — for yoga, and walking, and therapy, and all the stuff I need to do to stay well?

And do you remember how even last year when we “returned” to in-person learning and I got to see my students face to face, I was thrilled? how I had enough steam to still maintain my physical and emotional health, probably because we regularly shifted to virtual learning and I could catch my breath and reset my rhythms from time to time? how it wasn’t until the very end of the year that the fatigue caught up with me and I lost my shit over a small unintentional slight on my students’ graduation day?

And do you remember how I committed last summer to being not only a master teacher, but also a reading interventionist, a cooperating teacher for a colleague who needed to student teach, and a fellow in the Michigan Teacher Leader Collaborative (MTLC)? How I wondered if saying yes to all of these responsibilities was was taking on too much or if I would finally find a limit to what I could do?

Yeah, guys, it appears that I have found that limit. I’m starting to see some warning flags.

However, I can’t always tell that I’m at my limit. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I am on my game. I am an experienced teacher, so I see results. My students are learning and the data reflects that fact. I’m open to coaching because I see its impact on my instructional practices. I’m building relationships both in and out of school — relationships that are mutually impactful.

And the need is there! Each year I get asked to do more, to take on more responsibility, as all effective teachers do. And because we see the need — the students who might benefit from our instruction and the gaps that we might fill — we agree to do it. We fit in one more class, sit on one more committee, and assist with one more project. In a school building, everyone is busy, and there is always more to be done, so we take turns adding more to our to-do list.

And in some ways, it’s affirming. We feel needed and valued and appreciated when our leadership approaches us and says, “You are doing such a great job with all the things you are doing, and we want you to do even more!”

We get celebrated for our accomplishments. We get a pay bump. All is good!

But, guys, humans have limitations, and eventually all that piling on of responsibility, all that added weight, begins to drag a person down and their effectiveness begins to flag. They begin to feel fatigue. They make a sharp comment to a student or a colleague. They begin to wonder if they can sustain the rhythms. They begin to look at other opportunities where they might not have to work quite so hard.

Yet the offers to work even harder keep showing up. Right now I have an opportunity to apply to be a senior fellow for the MTLC. I will likely be asked to add another section of students for the reading intervention I do. I’ve already been slated to work on a committee to discuss our school’s improvement plan. And to be honest, I’d love to do it all. I really would. I am sitting in the heart of the work that I have been called to my entire career. This is what I was created for — to see systemic inequities in education, to bring excellent instructional practices to students who have historically not been well-served but who are highly capable nonetheless, to speak into the policies that perpetuate educational inequities, and to work at the school level to make change a reality. This is it, guys. This is my lane.

And if I want to stay here, in this lane, and continue to impact individual students, I have to have a boundary that allows me to remain healthy. I have to practice the art of the no,

No, I won’t be applying to be a senior fellow in the MTLC.

No, I won’t be adding another section of the reading intervention.

No, I won’t be writing an article for your publication, volunteering at your fundraiser, or teaching during your summer program.

I have to say no sometimes so that I will be able to continue my yes.

Yes, I will still teach seniors at Detroit Leadership Academy.

Yes, I will stay on the Cougars to College/Post-Secondary Plans team.

Yes, I will continue to do one section each semester of the Adolescent Accelerated Reading Intervention.

Yes, I will continue to sit on the leadership team, support the overall success of this school, and participate in visioning and implementing practices that work to eliminate systemic inequities that disadvantage students of color.

The yesses are so important that I have to practice the art of the no. I have to guard my time, my space, my influence so that it has the most sustainable impact in the lane that is most important to me.

I have to practice the art of the no, so that I can say yes to myself, even though that is contrary to much of what I was taught. I need to oxygenate myself first — through yoga, and writing, and reading, and rest, and play — so that I have the health and the energy to say yes to the people that I love — my husband, my children, my grandchildren, my parents, and my friends — and to those that I serve — my students and my colleagues.

This is a learned practice, my friends. I have learned (and am still learning) how to say no because I once too often said yes, sure, of course, I can do that. And I piled on responsibility after responsibility while fully denying the needs of myself, my family, and my friends. I paid a high price with my health and my relationships. And I’m not willing to do that again.

We are not called to be all things to all people. We are called to use our gifts as part of the body, part of the system, part of a mechanism that utilizes the strengths of each individual to benefit the whole. We are called to support one another, and to encourage one another to take rest and to stay well, and to celebrate each of those individual strengths.

My strength, my husband playfully said last week, is “an insufferable belief in restoration”.

I believe in restoration because I am very noticeably being restored — physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally. I don’t take that for granted, and I won’t throw it away. I will practice the art of the no, so that I can carry my “insufferable belief in restoration” into a few little spaces who need someone like me.

What more can a girl hope for?

‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.”

2Cor 12:9

Finding my next Crew

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

This past week flew by! They all do, but last week was especially full. In addition to my regular teaching duties, I was tasked with testing a dozen or so freshmen to select next semester’s cohort for my AARI (Accelerated Adolescent Reading Intervention) class.

I had a spreadsheet of data including the students’ names, attendance record, scores (if available) on last year’s NWEA MAP test, PSAT/Academic Approach scores from this year, and their current grades in English Language Arts. My job was to first select about a dozen students to test, and then to complete those tests before a Friday deadline.

Now, don’t feel sorry for me. I teach all day long (literally 8:30-3:15 with 35 minutes for lunch) on Monday and Thursday, but on Tuesday and Friday, I teach only one 50 minute block. Wednesdays we have a shortened school day that ends at 1:45 with meetings or professional development following that. The large blocks of time on Tuesday and Friday are usually reserved for planning and grading, but this past week, I used almost every one of those spare minutes to assess the group of freshmen that I had identified. Of the twelve I tested, eleven qualified for the program. I can only keep 10. And really, even ten is a number that is larger than I am comfortable with.

The space in the back of my room comfortably seats 8 — the class size I started with last fall. I am going to have to reconfigure that space sometime this week. AARI says the results are consistent with groups up to 10, and my administrators want to impact as many students as possible with this program, but let me tell you, the freshmen class that we have right now, the one straight outta COVID, is a challenge to wrangle. For two years of their adolescence they could do whatever they wanted whenever they wanted. We have been working as a team all semester to use systems and procedures to build a culture and to tame all that energy, but let me tell you, these fourteen year olds have a ton of energy. and impulsivity. and immaturity.

I beckon to their better selves, “Class, why are we here?”

Monotone chanting accompanied by eye rolling, “to become better readers.”

“That’s right! And how do we become better readers?”

“By reading…”

I turn to write on the board, a small bit of pencil eraser flies across the room. Laughter breaks out. I turn back around, meet their eyes, call them back to order, and begin again — over and over and over.

Yes. I am doing this willingly.

So, anyway, Tuesday morning I started pulling students from their regularly scheduled classes.

I knock on the door, ask a teacher for a student, the teacher calls the student’s name, the student looks at me — who they do not know — and stands, walks towards me, and looks as though to say, “What do you want me for?”

“Hi, I’m Mrs. Rathje. Have you seen me around before?”

“Yeah,”

“I teach 12th graders, but one hour a day I teach reading to a group of freshmen. How do you feel about reading?”

“It’s alright.”

“Yeah? Do you like reading?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I am getting ready to start a new class of freshmen who will meet with me everyday to improve their reading. Is that something you are interested in?”

Silence.

“Ok, well, I’d like you to come with me for a few minutes to do a couple of activities to see if you would be a good fit. OK?”

“Yeah.”

We walk to my room, I invite them to take a seat, and I instruct them to start reading lists of words that have been grouped by grade level. Once we have established their familiarity with words and their ability to sound out unfamiliar words, I ask them to read a passage. I started the passage reading for most students at second grade level since I know that most of my students last semester began with an independence level of second to third grade.

Student after student this week complied — not one refused to sit with me and read word lists and passages. In fact, I believe they all gave a good effort to show me their abilities. Of the eleven I tested, seven fell in the ‘instructional’ range at the second grade passage. Three were instructional at the third grade passage. One was instructional at the Primer level — below first grade, and one student surprised me.

Nash* had been on my list all week long, but I didn’t meet with him until mid-morning on Friday. His teachers had informed me that they weren’t sure about his reading but that in class he was “all over the place”, that he had difficulty focusing, and that his grades were abysmal. I had never met the student, so I was curious to find out if reading was the source of the problem.

I found Nash in the back row of the class he was attending. His laptop was open even though the teacher was giving directions and everyone else had their laptops closed. He was deeply engaged in what he was doing, so I walked over to him, touched him on the shoulder, and said, “Would you come with me, please?”

Once we were in the hall, I asked all the same questions. When I asked, “how would you feel about being in a reading class?” he turned to me and said, “Just reading?”

“Yes, we have a small group of students and we work on reading skills every day.”

“I would love a reading class.”

That should’ve been my first clue.

“Great,” I said, “let’s do a couple of activities together and see if you would be a good fit.”

He read every word list I had — from pre-primer to high school level. I think he mispronounced a half a dozen words that he attempted to sound out, but he didn’t see a word he wouldn’t try.

I started the reading portion by giving him a fourth grade passage because even though other students have read far into the word lists, they often haven’t demonstrated comprehension at the same levels.

He easily read the fourth grade passage and answered all the questions, same with the fifth and the sixth. When he got to the Upper Middle School passage about the life cycle of stars, he took a little longer, but he combed the text looking for answers, asked me some of his own clarifying questions, and reasoned aloud about his answer choices. He was deeply engaged with the text and with the process. He was easily “instructional” at that level, so we moved on to the high school passage about cell replication.

This passage was trickier; it was not only longer, but some of the questions referred to captions on illustrations. Nevertheless, he persevered. He kept going back to the text, talking out his reasoning, and then explaining to me why he was giving the answer that he was.

After almost an hour of testing, he was still diving back into the text to verify that his answer was correct. Finally, I said, “Nash, we are going to stop right here because we both have another class in a few minutes, but I have one more question for you. Your name was on a list of students who have difficulty reading. Can you explain to me why your name was on that list?”

He looked at me and smiled innocently.

“You don’t have any difficulty reading. In fact, I would say you are very bright — the kind of bright that not only goes on to college but that often goes to graduate school and might even get a PhD. Do you know what a PhD is?”

“No.”

“People with PhDs teach at universities. Do you want to go to college?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You need to go to college. I see only one problem with that.”

“What’s that?”

“What do your grades look like?”

“They are terrible.”

“Why’s that?”

“I have trouble focusing.”

We talked about focus for a little while — about how two of my own children also struggle with focus, about how hard it is for a fourteen year old to manage his own distractibility, about the fact that he sees a therapist, and about his huge potential despite this difficulty.

“Look, Nash, you’re not gonna be in my class, but you are going to get sick of talking to me. I am going to be checking up on you because it would be a shame if you continued getting the grades you are getting and you eliminated yourself from some great college opportunities.”

“OK.”

I returned him to his class and returned to my room to teach a class. After that, I reported for lunch room duty where I saw Nash again, in a sea of chaos, plunked down alone at a cafeteria table, scanning something on his computer as his lunch debris accumulated around him. I recognized him right away — the little genius that is navigating his way through this high school experience.

I finished up my testing later Friday afternoon and sent my results to my principal. Over the weekend she affirmed my selections and agreed that the eleventh student, the one who needs the AARI program but who said she would not be willing to work in our small group environment, should be referred to our special education team for some other sort of intervention.

Today and tomorrow, I will communicate that all out to the students I tested, and next Monday I will meet my new crew. Before then, I’ve got to finish up with my current class of seven, give them some parting instructions, and let them know, too, that Momma Rathje will be keeping tabs. When they — and Nash — are seniors, they’ll be back with me, God willing, to finish their high school years strong and launch onto what’s next.

What a pleasure it will be to watch their development between now on then.

*Name changed to maintain confidentiality.

Christmas Cheer

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Like many of you, I’ve been checking off items on my to-do list as I prepare for Christmas. In fact, I’ve got multiple lists! We’ve still got a few gifts to purchase, some homemade gifts to finish, and some food to prepare before holiday gatherings. Each day, I complete a task or two and then revise my list, recalculating to make sure everything will be done “on time”.

And while I’m doing that, I’m insisting that my students attend to their own lists.Yes, we are still in school. Our last day is Thursday, December 22. Between now and then, my seniors will complete an essay, which many of them have not yet started. They’ll write a rough draft, participate in peer review, attend to revisions, and carefully proofread before submitting their final drafts. We’re on a tight schedule, but if we stick to our lists, they [and I] will complete everything right on time.

Sounds like no problem, but we’re all kind of over it, if I’m going to be honest — the getting up in the dark, traveling to school in the cold, filing into the building, taking our places, and trudging through the motions, day after day after day.

And, as though she had her finger on the ho-hum pulse of the collective arm of our community, our instructional coach created a spirit week for this of all weeks — the week that I’ve scheduled down to the minute with very little room for getting off task.

The announcement came on Friday at around 1:30. “Get excited, everyone! Next week is spirit week!”

Sigh.

Monday we’ll have a door decorating competition. Tuesday everyone will enjoy hot chocolate and cookies at lunch. Wednesday will be ugly sweater day, and Thursday, our last day at school before break, will be Holiday Cheer Day, where everyone is encouraged to wear Santa hats, jingle bells, or other holiday items.

My first response on Friday afternoon at 1:30pm, as I was wrapping up the week’s work and preparing for the final push, was a very Scrooge-y “Seriously? One more thing to cram into next week?” and “You really want me to take time out of class on Monday to decorate my classroom door? My students are writing a paper!?!?!”

Then I progressed to, “I don’t even have an ugly Christmas sweater!” and “I need to bring supplies to decorate my door?”

Didn’t she know about my lists and my strategy for getting each item ticked off before Christmas? How was I going to fit MORE to-dos onto my lists?

But this morning, my eyes are turned to our students.

This past week, as we have been preparing to write our personal essays, my students have been sharing scenes from their lives, letting me in just a bit, sharing a peek at the things that have shaped them.

Calvin’s* mother died in 2017, when he was just 13. He said it “messed me up”. He found comfort in eating and ballooned to over 300 pounds. But, last summer, an area gym offered free memberships to teens, so he joined. He and his sister, who he now lives with, stopped eating fast food and started cooking at home, and he has lost over 70 pounds. He wants to keep going; his goal is to look sharp for prom — one of the biggest days in the lives of our students.

Monette*, who started this school year pregnant but gave birth and then lost her young son a few days later, says she wants to write about this experience. She says holding her son was a moment she was proud, and losing him was the biggest hurt of her life.

Hope* engaged in an argument with someone on Twitter who claimed that Breonnna Taylor’s boyfriend was a drug dealer. She searched for evidence to disprove his theory and stayed at it until the original post was deleted.

Kevin’s* enlisting in the Army. He spent last summer training with his recruiters, cutting the weight he gained during Covid. He’s our valedictorian, and his ASVAB score qualifies him for just about any military training he chooses. He’s going through the steps now to ensure that he’ll start boot camp just a couple weeks after graduation.

These seniors of mine stand at the edge of adulthood, where the choices they are making have long-lasting impact. They are showing up each day, working hard, and looking forward to a not-too-distant future where they will be responsible for every aspect of their lives. It’s heavy, and I need to take a moment to acknowledge that.

The weight they are carrying goes beyond checking off items on their Christmas to-do list, beyond choosing which salad they will make for Christmas Eve, beyond what gift to purchase for a colleague. They are engaging with real adult stuff — health, loss, political engagement, and military service — when they have a few fleeting moments left to enjoy being kids.

What will it cost me to allow them a little bit of fun this week? a little bit of encouragement? A little reward for continuing to show up even when they are over it?

And won’t I enjoy it, too? Won’t it be fun seeing my seniors scrambling within the 10 minutes they have been allotted to decorate my classroom door, glancing over their shoulders at the classes across the hall to see what they are doing?

Won’t it be great to see our students sipping cocoa and dunking Christmas cookies?

Won’t it bring some laughs and joy to compare our ugly Christmas sweaters?

And won’t it lighten the mood to hear some jingle bells in the hallway?

Yes, of course, yes.

So, I dragged myself out today, found an ugly sweater that I will try to make uglier before Wednesday. I picked up some supplies for our door decorating contest, and while I was out I bought a chai latte to sip on as my attitude finished adjusting.

I checked some other items off my to-do list, too, and then reminded myself to relax. What gets done, gets done. Christmas is about more than my to-do list. It’s about seeing the people in front me, enjoying the time I have with them, and sharing the joy of a love that offers hope, restoration, and a future.

Once again, my instructional coach gave me just what I needed.

for unto [us] is born this day, a Savior”

Luke 2:11

*All names changed, of course.