Monday Motivator #7 2020-21

 

How To Give Your Students Hope

October 17, 2020 by Michael Linsin

https://www.smartclassroommanagement.com/2020/10/17/how-to-give-your-students-hope/

With students experiencing profound mental health struggles because of the pandemic, I’ve taken a different approach to teaching this year.

And I hope you’ll join me.

Yes, I’m still following my classroom management plan. I still expect every student to meet the standards I set for the class. I still push for continual daily improvement.

After all, Covid or not, children need purpose. They need direction and responsibility and a metaphorical kick in the pants.

Building grit is key to good mental health.

Still, for many, hope is losing its grasp. When you can’t see to the end of the tunnel, discouragement bears down on you like a runaway train. It nips at your heels and threatens to take you down, down, down.

So my focus has shifted.

Since the start of school, I’ve drenched my students in a downpouring of hope. In the midst of so much uncertainty, fear, and isolation, I believe it’s our primary duty as teachers.

What I’m doing is nothing specific. I don’t have a three-step process for you to follow or a list of the perfect things to say. Nor do I have any particular strategies.

I let the message guide me.

As soon as the green light flickers on, I sprinkle my lessons with talk of present joys and future dreams. I share the books I’m reading and the perspectives they offer.

I talk about my dogs and the sunshine and the first divinely bite of an apple.

I show them the art on my walls. The too-heavy kettlebells I’m swinging. The journal I write in. I describe the smokey green tea that gives me more enjoyment than it should.

I reorient them toward simple pleasures, those that must be savored, appreciated, and cultivated or else will die dry and withering upon the vine.

I show them short motivational videos and play music that stirs the heart. I talk about getting back to school, meeting face to face, and the fun we’ll surely have together.

I tell them to hang in there, that I’ve got their back, and that life can and must be lived in full.

I tell them that this too shall pass.

I bring up goals and ambition, love and beauty, hope in the unseen and grace for us all. I acknowledge frustrations and sadness and the reality of 2020.

Most of all, I laugh. I joke. I find humor in the mundane and glee in the absurd. I model joy in spite of it all. I show that you can choose a positive, determined existence no matter the circumstance.

There are days, however. There are days when feels as if it’s all closing in on me too.

So I sit and I breathe. I close my eyes and prepare for class by thinking of them, my students, and what it must be like in their shoes—confused, lonely, life on hold.

And I soften.

It’s my job now to guide them through, to help them navigate the forest dark. To convince them that though we can’t see the light, it’s there.

Just around the bend.

Monday Motivator #6 2020-21

How Culturally Responsive Teaching Re-Draws the Boundaries of the “In” Crowd

https://www.jensenlearning.com/a-fresh-look-at-cultural-responsiveness/

Why is it that so many kids crave to be part of the “in” crowd? What do they hope to gain? Regardless of what they’re looking for, being a part of the “in” crowd is a healthy desire.

We’re not talking popularity status. We’re talking about the astounding evidence that shows how students in the “in-group” and “out-group” have a vastly different life and educational experiences. Spoiler alert: you play a HUGE role in determining which students feel part of the “in-group.”

The Research

This post is about understanding how students in the right “in-group” tend to do better in your class. You’ll discover the secret to expanding the boundaries of the “in-group” to include ALL students.

In-Groups

You can see “in-groups” form when thousands of complete strangers gather in a stadium (pre-COVID) to cheer on their favorite sports team. For 2-3 hours, a social miracle of human bonding occurs. Nearly every person in the stands accepts and cheers WITH every other person, regardless of their age, political affiliation, gender, ethnicity, or knowledge of the sport. All it takes is sharing just one common, passionate value (our home team) to forge an “in-group.”

Other in-groups form as people gather in the streets to protest police brutality. Maybe they disagree on 25 other things, but on the one topic of police brutality, they have a common bond, and they’re all in the temporary “in-group.”

The groups an individual identifies themselves with are his/her “in-group.” Members of the “in-group” display co-operation, good-will, mutual help, and possess a sense of solidarity. There is a feeling of brotherhood and readiness to sacrifice themselves for the group (Masuda & Fu, 2015).

In a classroom, the “in-group” is typically the group of students whose culture matches (or is embraced by) the teacher. Teachers could be inclusive or exclusive in how they build their “in-group.”

Out-Groups

“Out-groups,” on the other hand, refer to those groups with which individuals do not identify themselves. Contrasting in- and out-groups are Democrats and Republicans, Yankee fans and Red Sox fans, and Pakistanis and Indians.

In- and out-groups will form in any classroom, even if the teacher does nothing but teach. It is true that “birds of a feather” will flock together. On their own, students usually create their own “in” or “out” groups. In-group members use the term “we” (vs. “they” for the out-group.) They identify with “our class” more than “the class.”

In a classroom, the “out-group” is the group of students whose culture is different from (or not acknowledged by) the teacher. Yet savvy teachers create an entire class as their newly organized “in-group”, and continually embrace others and expand it to include ALL the students as part of their BIGGER class “in-group.”

How?

Cultural Responsiveness!

The well-established “empathy-gap” between teachers and students of different cultures creates a barrier to learning worthy of attention. Recognizing and respecting all cultures in your classroom will yield high results both relationally and academically (Bottiani, Bradshaw, & Mendelson, 2016).

A student’s culture includes their ethnicity, religion, sexuality, language, skin color, and more. It is how a teacher responds to each student’s unique cultural identity that determines whether they feel part of the “in-group” or “out-group.” Teachers can positively respond by supporting students whose culture is different from their own.

Why does that matter?

Because not only do teachers influence the students’ choices of which group to be part of, the students who feel part of the “out-group” perform and behave below the “in-group” norms.

How?

The short answer is: Feeling excluded, isolated, or rejected increases the levels of cortisol in the brain. Simply put, feeling a part of the “out-group” is stressful. And the chronic stress experienced by minority cultures is causing devastating impacts on their body and brain. (Stanley & Adolphs, 2013).

When your culture (something HIGHLY relevant to you) is excluded or discriminated against in ways you can’t easily control, it is stressful. When this continues for months, years, or a lifetime, it is classified as chronic stress.

(For a quick review of other forms of stress – healthy stress and acute stress – revisit last month’s post The 3 Biggest Lies You’ve Been Taught About Stress)

1. Chronic Stress and Student Behavior

As you might recall from last month’s issue on stress, a useful approach to reducing stress is to seek more control and/or make things less relevant. However, when students engage in one of these strategies in the classroom, they can be perceived as “behavior problems.” A culturally responsive teacher sees the real problem is the over-exposure to chronic stress.

In the classroom, a student may behave a bit edgy, aggressive, or have a verbal outburst. Another student may appear to be disinterested or apathetic toward learning. A culturally responsive teacher recognizes these behaviors as a biological survival response to chronic stress – get more control or make things less relevant. They take the student’s response as feedback and seek out more relevant learning activities.

2. Chronic Stress and Student Academic Performance

Chronic stress associated with being part of the “out-group” impacts several areas of the brain (including the emotional systems, attentional systems, memory systems, and more.)

The constant worry of “Do I fit in here? Am I (and my culture) seen here? Will I be harassed today?” consumes the emotional systems of the brain, led by the amygdala. Since (social) survival is of greater importance than dividing fractions to the brain, attention is diverted away from the math lesson. This, in turn, significantly decreases the likelihood of accurate memory formation (Quaedflieg & Schwabe, 2018).

Put simply, stress hormones from chronic stress block cognition. When this plays out day after day, the result is students who don’t feel part of the “in-group” experience lower levels of academic achievement (Frazier, Gabriel, Merians & Lust, 2019).

This can lead to students in the “out-groups” being mislabeled and placed in special education classes. Without support or intervention, these patterns can be perpetuated and confirmed by teacher biases.

3. Chronic Stress and Student Social Connectedness

The defining feature of students in the “out-group” is a lack of belonging to the larger community. As social creatures, feeling isolated contributes to a stressful experience at school.

However, the majority of minority students perceive they are discriminated against by their teachers. Although a teacher might not think they are discriminatory, it is the student’s perception that matters most. And because of this common perception, minority students commonly report feeling their academic efforts are pointless (D’Hondt, Eccles, Houtte, & Stevens, 2016).

Practical Applications

There are many systemic changes needed to reduce the chronic stress experienced by students whose culture doesn’t place them in the “in-group.” As we work as a society to make those needed changes, there are things you can do in your own classroom and school to foster greater cultural responsiveness. Start opening the arena of success to more students with the tools below:

A Culturally Responsive Approach to Behavior

1. Let empathy guide your discipline strategies. On the surface, it might seem appropriate to invoke a harsh discipline on a student who is using explosive vulgar language toward you. What happens when you look a layer deeper? Underneath the surface, a neuro-biological survival process is at play. In a classroom, this survival behavior often makes it difficult for the student, whose culture puts them in the “out-group,” to act well-behaved. Re-think whether a suspension is an appropriate response for a student who feels left out and may have responded with anxiety or distress.As you examine your discipline strategies, consider approaches supporting students getting more control over their minds and bodies. Instead of, “That’s it – go to the office!” consider, “I can see you are very upset right now. How about you take 3 minutes to step outside and take a few deep breaths. I’ll come out in a minute to see how else we can help you get re-centered.”
2. Proactively teaching self-regulation skills will always yield better results than reactively trying to manage a student’s behavior. Invest the time to teach your students ways to build their stress resilience. Here are a few suggestions based on the most well-researched stress preventers/reducers:- Start each class with a brief gratitude exercise. Students can share something they are grateful for with a neighbor, write in a journal, or drop it in the chatbox (Rusk, Vella-Brodrick, & Waters, 2016).- Daily exercise builds stress resilience. Incorporate more movement in your teaching (high knees for 30 seconds in between each practice problem) or invite students to meet up with you before school for a 20-minute powerwalk around the schoolyard (Puterman et al., 2010).

   – Mindfulness practices build your ability to control what your mind is focused on. Start by inviting students to focus on their breath, a picture of nature you display, or a calming visual in their mind for 10 seconds. Slowly build up to 60 seconds (Wielgosz et al., 2019).

A Culturally Responsive Approach to Academics

1. Maintain high expectations for ALL students. Those who feel part of the “out-group” already feel less than their peers. Carefully examine your mindset for any “deficit thinking.” Deficit thinking is the pattern of assuming deficiencies among students (often based on race, SES, family structure, or language spoken). This type of teacher mindset is in direct contrast to culturally responsive habits of maintaining high expectations for all students.Challenge yourself to identify the strengths of each student you work with. Write them down by their name in your grade book or another document you often visit to remind you of these strengths.
2. Culturally relevant instruction. As you prepare for each upcoming unit, evaluate your curriculum to ensure it represents all the students you teach. Your reading materials, characters you study, the music you play in your classroom… it all sends a message to your students. Make adjustments to ensure all students can find a way to connect to the characters, stories, and themes of your curriculum.
3. Use culturally-specific holidays or events as an opportunity to teach the rest of the class about a cultural tradition. Knowledge and awareness are the seeds from which tolerance and compassion grow.

A Culturally Relevant Response to Social Connectedness

1. Find a common purpose. Savvy teachers create an inclusive, whole-class “in-group.” This is often done by finding one common purpose that all students can get behind – similar to the diverse sports fans who all rally around their home team. Some teachers get the “whole class” behind helping hurt animals, getting others to vote, wounded warriors, or the community food bank. The whole class fights hard all year (or semester) for that “one big thing.” This could be the “we, the class team” vs. “others.”
2. Be a Caring Adult. For some students, their classroom community at school is where they feel most safe and accepted. When familial stability or connection is low, the teacher-student relationship can mitigate the effects of a poor home environment (Benner & Mistry, 2007). You don’t have to be their teacher AND their parent – just offer the same safety and warmth that every child should feel at home.
3. Seek for Equity, not Equality. Some students have a greater need for a caring adult than others, based on their home life. As you get to know each student personally, invest your time with students who need a supportive relationship that you can offer. Remember, equity is giving more to those who need it most. Those who are already in the “in-group” and have supportive home lives are already in the arena of success.Spend time with students who would be considered in the “out-group” in your classroom or school. Learn about their lives. Listen. Ask questions. Then listen some more. There is evidence that spending just a few minutes a day with individual at-risk students can improve the teacher’s view of that student (Driscoll & Pianta, 2010).

Every culture-based barrier for students has been built over time. Now is the time to break down the barriers excluding those in the “out-groups” from the opportunities afforded those whose culture matches yours. Start with one of the ideas above and continue on your path of becoming a more culturally responsive teacher and leader.

Monday Motivator #5 2020-21

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Monday Motivator #4 2020-21

 Taiye Selasi

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TEDGlobal 2014

Don't ask where I'm from, ask where I'm a local

3,118,695 views

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16:31

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Subtitles in 29 languages

https://www.ted.com/talks/taiye_selasi_don_t_ask_where_i_m_from_ask_where_i_m_a_local/transcript

Last year, I went on my first book tour. In 13 months, I flew to 14 countries and gave some hundred talks. Every talk in every country began with an introduction, and every introduction began, alas, with a lie: "Taiye Selasi comes from Ghana and Nigeria," or "Taiye Selasi comes from England and the States." Whenever I heard this opening sentence, no matter the country that concluded it -- England, America, Ghana, Nigeria -- I thought, "But that's not true." Yes, I was born in England and grew up in the United States. My mum, born in England, and raised in Nigeria, currently lives in Ghana. My father was born in Gold Coast, a British colony, raised in Ghana, and has lived for over 30 years in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. For this reason, my introducers also called me "multinational." "But Nike is multinational," I thought, "I'm a human being." 

Then, one fine day, mid-tour, I went to Louisiana, a museum in Denmark where I shared the stage with the writer Colum McCann. We were discussing the role of locality in writing, when suddenly it hit me. I'm not multinational. I'm not a national at all. How could I come from a nation? How can a human being come from a concept? It's a question that had been bothering me for going on two decades. From newspapers, textbooks, conversations, I had learned to speak of countries as if they were eternal, singular, naturally occurring things, but I wondered: to say that I came from a country suggested that the country was an absolute, some fixed point in place in time, a constant thing, but was it? In my lifetime, countries had disappeared -- Czechoslovakia; appeared -- Timor-Leste; failed -- Somalia. My parents came from countries that didn't exist when they were born. To me, a country -- this thing that could be born, die, expand, contract -- hardly seemed the basis for understanding a human being. 

And so it came as a huge relief to discover the sovereign state. What we call countries are actually various expressions of sovereign statehood, an idea that came into fashion only 400 years ago. When I learned this, beginning my masters degree in international relations, I felt a sort of surge of relief. It was as I had suspected. History was real, cultures were real, but countries were invented. For the next 10 years, I sought to re- or un-define myself, my world, my work, my experience, beyond the logic of the state. 

In 2005, I wrote an essay, "What is an Afropolitan," sketching out an identity that privileged culture over country. It was thrilling how many people could relate to my experience, and instructional how many others didn't buy my sense of self. "How can Selasi claim to come from Ghana," one such critic asked, "when she's never known the indignities of traveling abroad on a Ghanian passport?" 

Now, if I'm honest, I knew just what she meant. I've got a friend named Layla who was born and raised in Ghana. Her parents are third-generation Ghanians of Lebanese descent. Layla, who speaks fluent Twi, knows Accra like the back of her hand, but when we first met years ago, I thought, "She's not from Ghana." In my mind, she came from Lebanon, despite the patent fact that all her formative experience took place in suburban Accra. I, like my critics, was imagining some Ghana where all Ghanaians had brown skin or none held U.K. passports. I'd fallen into the limiting trap that the language of coming from countries sets -- the privileging of a fiction, the singular country, over reality: human experience. Speaking with Colum McCann that day, the penny finally dropped. "All experience is local," he said. "All identity is experience," I thought. "I'm not a national," I proclaimed onstage. "I'm a local. I'm multi-local." 

See, "Taiye Selasi comes from the United States," isn't the truth. I have no relationship with the United States, all 50 of them, not really. My relationship is with Brookline, the town where I grew up; with New York City, where I started work; with Lawrenceville, where I spend Thanksgiving. What makes America home for me is not my passport or accent, but these very particular experiences and the places they occur. Despite my pride in Ewe culture, the Black Stars, and my love of Ghanaian food, I've never had a relationship with the Republic of Ghana, writ large. My relationship is with Accra, where my mother lives, where I go each year, with the little garden in Dzorwulu where my father and I talk for hours. These are the places that shape my experience. My experience is where I'm from. 

What if we asked, instead of "Where are you from?" -- "Where are you a local?" This would tell us so much more about who and how similar we are. Tell me you're from France, and I see what, a set of clichés? Adichie's dangerous single story, the myth of the nation of France? Tell me you're a local of Fez and Paris, better yet, Goutte d'Or, and I see a set of experiences. Our experience is where we're from. 

So, where are you a local? I propose a three-step test. I call these the three "R’s": rituals, relationships, restrictions. 

First, think of your daily rituals, whatever they may be: making your coffee, driving to work, harvesting your crops, saying your prayers. What kind of rituals are these? Where do they occur? In what city or cities in the world do shopkeepers know your face? As a child, I carried out fairly standard suburban rituals in Boston, with adjustments made for the rituals my mother brought from London and Lagos. We took off our shoes in the house, we were unfailingly polite with our elders, we ate slow-cooked, spicy food. In snowy North America, ours were rituals of the global South. The first time I went to Delhi or to southern parts of Italy, I was shocked by how at home I felt. The rituals were familiar. "R" number one, rituals. 

Now, think of your relationships, of the people who shape your days. To whom do you speak at least once a week, be it face to face or on FaceTime? Be reasonable in your assessment; I'm not talking about your Facebook friends. I'm speaking of the people who shape your weekly emotional experience. My mother in Accra, my twin sister in Boston, my best friends in New York: these relationships are home for me. "R" number two, relationships. 

We're local where we carry out our rituals and relationships, but how we experience our locality depends in part on our restrictions. By restrictions, I mean, where are you able to live? What passport do you hold? Are you restricted by, say, racism, from feeling fully at home where you live? By civil war, dysfunctional governance, economic inflation, from living in the locality where you had your rituals as a child? This is the least sexy of the R’s, less lyric than rituals and relationships, but the question takes us past "Where are you now?" to "Why aren't you there, and why?" Rituals, relationships, restrictions. 

Take a piece of paper and put those three words on top of three columns, then try to fill those columns as honestly as you can. A very different picture of your life in local context, of your identity as a set of experiences, may emerge. 

So let's try it. I have a friend named Olu. He's 35 years old. His parents, born in Nigeria, came to Germany on scholarships. Olu was born in Nuremberg and lived there until age 10. When his family moved to Lagos, he studied in London, then came to Berlin. He loves going to Nigeria -- the weather, the food, the friends -- but hates the political corruption there. Where is Olu from? 

I have another friend named Udo. He's also 35 years old. Udo was born in Córdoba, in northwest Argentina, where his grandparents migrated from Germany, what is now Poland, after the war. Udo studied in Buenos Aires, and nine years ago came to Berlin. He loves going to Argentina -- the weather, the food, the friends -- but hates the economic corruption there. Where is Udo from? With his blonde hair and blue eyes, Udo could pass for German, but holds an Argentinian passport, so needs a visa to live in Berlin. That Udo is from Argentina has largely to do with history. That he's a local of Buenos Aires and Berlin, that has to do with life. 

Olu, who looks Nigerian, needs a visa to visit Nigeria. He speaks Yoruba with an English accent, and English with a German one. To claim that he's "not really Nigerian," though, denies his experience in Lagos, the rituals he practiced growing up, his relationship with family and friends. 

Meanwhile, though Lagos is undoubtedly one of his homes, Olu always feels restricted there, not least by the fact that he's gay. 

Both he and Udo are restricted by the political conditions of their parents' countries, from living where some of their most meaningful rituals and relationships occur. To say Olu is from Nigeria and Udo is from Argentina distracts from their common experience. Their rituals, their relationships, and their restrictions are the same. 

Of course, when we ask, "Where are you from?" we're using a kind of shorthand. It's quicker to say "Nigeria" than "Lagos and Berlin," and as with Google Maps, we can always zoom in closer, from country to city to neighborhood. But that's not quite the point. The difference between "Where are you from?" and "Where are you a local?" isn't the specificity of the answer; it's the intention of the question. Replacing the language of nationality with the language of locality asks us to shift our focus to where real life occurs. Even that most glorious expression of countryhood, the World Cup, gives us national teams comprised mostly of multilocal players. As a unit of measurement for human experience, the country doesn't quite work. That's why Olu says, "I'm German, but my parents come from Nigeria." The "but" in that sentence belies the inflexibility of the units, one fixed and fictional entity bumping up against another. "I'm a local of Lagos and Berlin," suggests overlapping experiences, layers that merge together, that can't be denied or removed. You can take away my passport, but you can't take away my experience. That I carry within me. Where I'm from comes wherever I go. 

To be clear, I'm not suggesting that we do away with countries. There's much to be said for national history, more for the sovereign state. Culture exists in community, and community exists in context. Geography, tradition, collective memory: these things are important. What I'm questioning is primacy. All of those introductions on tour began with reference to nation, as if knowing what country I came from would tell my audience who I was. What are we really seeking, though, when we ask where someone comes from? And what are we really seeing when we hear an answer? 

Here's one possibility: basically, countries represent power. "Where are you from?" Mexico. Poland. Bangladesh. Less power. America. Germany. Japan. More power. China. Russia. Ambiguous. 

(Laughter) 

It's possible that without realizing it, we're playing a power game, especially in the context of multi-ethnic countries. As any recent immigrant knows, the question "Where are you from?" or "Where are you really from?" is often code for "Why are you here?" 

Then we have the scholar William Deresiewicz's writing of elite American colleges. "Students think that their environment is diverse if one comes from Missouri and another from Pakistan -- never mind that all of their parents are doctors or bankers." 

I'm with him. To call one student American, another Pakistani, then triumphantly claim student body diversity ignores the fact that these students are locals of the same milieu. The same holds true on the other end of the economic spectrum. A Mexican gardener in Los Angeles and a Nepali housekeeper in Delhi have more in common in terms of rituals and restrictions than nationality implies. 

Perhaps my biggest problem with coming from countries is the myth of going back to them. I'm often asked if I plan to "go back" to Ghana. I go to Accra every year, but I can't "go back" to Ghana. It's not because I wasn't born there. My father can't go back, either. The country in which he was born, that country no longer exists. We can never go back to a place and find it exactly where we left it. Something, somewhere will always have changed, most of all, ourselves. People. 

Finally, what we're talking about is human experience, this notoriously and gloriously disorderly affair. In creative writing, locality bespeaks humanity. The more we know about where a story is set, the more local color and texture, the more human the characters start to feel, the more relatable, not less. The myth of national identity and the vocabulary of coming from confuses us into placing ourselves into mutually exclusive categories. In fact, all of us are multi -- multi-local, multi-layered. To begin our conversations with an acknowledgement of this complexity brings us closer together, I think, not further apart. So the next time that I'm introduced, I'd love to hear the truth: "Taiye Selasi is a human being, like everybody here. She isn't a citizen of the world, but a citizen of worlds. She is a local of New York, Rome and Accra." 

Thank you. 

(Applause)