Tag Archives: Gifted Best Practice

Inevitable

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Change is inevitable, or so I hear, and so tonight I reflect on just that.

When I became a teacher, it was a long time coming…almost 10 years had passed since I should have started this journey. Had I done it the traditional way, I’d have been in the classroom by 1998, which would put me at 25 years right now. I wasn’t altogether traditional in my path, and so here I am in my 16th year. A milestone in itself.

When I began this journey, I planned to teach high school English. Except high schoolers are not my people, save those who were my people before they got to high school. High school as a whole, I’ve discovered, is not my thing, and I have such philosophical angst around much of the way high school is done that I wouldn’t have lasted long. Being anything but a teacher was not in my long-term plan either. I was always going to be in the classroom, hopefully aging like Katherine Hepburn and looking just as stylish.

The journey into the land of Tall Poppies was an interesting one. As I learned the things about teaching that aren’t even remotely taught in teacher school, there were things I found that I couldn’t abide. Cookie-cutter classrooms and lesson plans, little to no movement, and the overuse of the word “fidelity.” But I managed to find my people, my heart aching to do the things they talked about in steering committee meetings, and stalked them until they agreed to give me a chance with these gifted kids. And it was glorious. And incredibly difficult. And worth every moment of internal…and external angst. Kids-who-will-always-be-mine are going to college, getting apartments, finding partners, and growing their own families. Yes, it was glorious and I look back on my time with each of them, even the ones who gave me heartburn daily, with such fondness. My heart is bigger because of them, and they each managed to make me a pretty damn good teacher.

I don’t know quite when I changed my mind and created a fork in my plan. I remember thinking that I wanted to do more, having a greater impact than just within my little classroom with yellow walls. I took a chance and presented at a literacy conference, because no one was talking about gifted. Everything was about intervention for when kids were behind, or practical strategies for working with kids who were not behind and not ahead, but squarely where the standards and assessments said they ought to be.

But no one talked about gifted. No one talked about what to do when the kids are reading several grade levels beyond what the grade level says they should and initiating complex questions for discussion. No one talked about what to do when an eight-year-old is writing their own chapter books or informational essays complete with domain-specific vocabulary, scaled diagrams, charts, and data analysis. No one talked about how to handle the intensity of absolutely everything. So I did.

(I didn’t know then that there are whole conferences dedicated to just gifted and all the fantastic things that go along with it. And those are utterly amazing…full of people who get “it” and want to help others understand how important it is for gifted kids to be SEEN.)

After that first conference, I presented sessions at more conferences and sought to learn more from people who are far smarter than I am.

Gradually, I grew to create my own position, marrying the things I did well with the things I wanted to do more of. And it was good, most of the time. And when it wasn’t, I felt it in the depths of my soul and tried to do better the next day.

My friend, who has also been my boss for most of my career, wanted to do more too. The fork in her plan has had a very long on-ramp, but it’s been worth it to prepare her for what comes next. Change is inevitable, you see. And so, while she gets to learn and do more doing something different, I get to take everything she taught me and do more too.

I get to fight the good fight for our Tall Poppies, leading and advocating on a greater scale and in a slightly different capacity. This was not the fork I planned at all, but it’s a logical one. The work my friend and colleagues have done over the past decade has enabled me to grow into leadership work.

A wise and very loud man said that school leaders should want to grow their people out of their jobs. Not because they want to lose them, but because without that growth, and growth from within, the school doesn’t evolve and have a greater impact on the kids it’s designed to serve. It’s not that a school needs to transform into something else altogether, but continued development of the staff creates an environment where best practice is the norm…it evolves over time. And sometimes, best practice means that someone should go off and do work that’s beyond the walls where they began. I want people to look back on their career in education and be able to say that they kept learning, growing, and becoming better at serving kids, in whatever capacity that might be over time.

I want the same for me too. I’m strangely quite happy that teaching doesn’t have to be a one-track career anymore, moving from classroom to administration to central office to retirement. From any point, one can choose to take what they’ve learned and serve in another role and to impact the lives of kids in a different way…because they were encouraged to develop their capacity by those who saw the potential for something beyond.

There are some things that are always true about change. It’s inevitable. It tends to generate additional change. It can be either positive or negative. But most importantly, it’s necessary for growth.

Wisley – Poppy and Butterfly by Colin Smith is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0

Walls and Boxes

Big Ideas, Connections, Gifted, Gifted Best Practice, Integrated Curriculum, , ,

A colleague of mine once said that it was critical for students to write to the same prompt, do the same project (a diorama for you! and you! and you!), take notes the same way to capture the same information, and turn in the same work with only one right response.

Doing so, they said, would teach them what it looks like when work is done, what it means to have work that is done well, and how to evaluate their own work against a set standard – the criteria set forth by a teacher. I saw an article about this somewhere the other day and it noted too that this type of expectation is setting kids up for the real world of adulthood–to be good little worker bees who are able to do what they are asked to do when they are old enough to have a job.

I went along with my colleague’s thinking for a while. I was a newish teacher and wasn’t sure how to prove my hypothesis about why my gut was aching more and more as we moved from unit to unit.

I wanted to see what would happen if we gave kids the opportunity to show what they had learned using a variety of options, each with its own set of criteria but also incorporating a requirement for the same knowledge. One of the things this colleague had noted was that they felt that it was impossible for a teacher to evaluate student learning if everyone was turning in something different–all students had to show the same learning so all students should be doing exactly the same work and then should be evaluated against each other to get a good picture of how the class as a whole was learning. A teacher can’t do that if everyone turns in something different–it all has to be exactly the same.

Almost everything I’ve learned about teaching, I’ve learned from kids. Kids have told me what they need in the past 17 years. And they’ve told other educators for far longer than that. They need, especially in the elementary years, to have opportunities to show what they know in a way that they are confident and able to do it. Some need to tell me what they know in a conversation or a presentation. Others want to sing about it because they can remember things best that way. Some want to draw it out and explain it. Others want to put all of it and then some into a poster and add bling and lights to illustrate the most important parts (the things THEY feel are the most important) and others want to write about it–they want to write about the experiences of people, their thoughts about a particular event, or simply lay out a series of facts. And still others want to recreate something they read about or saw–with a dance or a series of hand movements or by actually making the thing so they can understand how it works.

Kids need choice. They need to choose what they do, how they do it, and all the bits and pieces that go into it. And they need to learn what to do when what they chose doesn’t work out.

A question that came up was how I’ll know if they learned everything if they’re only focusing on something THEY want to share.

I don’t want them to learn everything. There’s a place for regurgitation of facts but I want them to learn enough to be able to connect what they’re learning with other things. They’re capable of finding out when William the Conqueror invaded England. They can google the names of every US president in order or learn the song if it brings them joy, but I’d rather they understand and be able to explain how the awful thing one person did impacted events and other people later on…and be able to connect it all to current and future situations.

A million years ago, when I was little, we learned about Native American tribes in Mrs. Gerlach’s class. I remember using paper bags to make “leather” to create a tipi and writing stories using pictures on the sides using markers, and sugar cubes to create igloos, and learning a little bit about the ways Native Americans used everything in nature to live. It was fun, and I remember that I enjoyed it all very much.

Photo by Jola Kedra on Pexels.com

Here’s what I didn’t learn:

I didn’t learn why they settled where they did or why they didn’t choose to move when the weather was cold and awful or what we’d consider too hot.

I didn’t learn why the Trail of Tears happened or why Native Americans were moved from where they settled first by people who moved here to escape persecution in their home country. And I didn’t learn why people thought that was perfectly reasonable to do.

I didn’t learn how the Native American cultures were the same, or how they were different beyond where they might have lived or what they ate, and I didn’t learn anything about their individual cultures or how their cultural stories connect to stories in other cultures in and beyond the U.S.

And given that I went to a Catholic school, I didn’t learn how their beliefs about God were the same or different than the faith in which I was being brought up. I think that would have been pretty damn important given we were learning how to be good Catholics.

I did learn that my tipi needed to look the same as others right down to how my story looked in pictures and that my igloo had to be shaped just like the other ones. I learned to answer multiple choice questions and match vocabulary words to their definitions.

And now as a grown-up, I don’t remember anything about that content beyond how to make a damn fine piece of paper bag leather and the way that it felt in my hands when it was soft and pliable…and that sharpies work better to draw on it than Crayola markers.

Kids deserve to learn more than how to make paper bag leather tipis. They deserve to be able to explain why they thought it was important to focus on the fact that one Native American culture chose to stay on the Western Slope while others chose to park themselves on the plains. They deserve the opportunity to imagine a life a long time ago and connect to it, comparing the 25-room homes of one culture to the two-bedroom, one-bath house they live in. They deserve to see history, science, literature, and math not as a series of facts to be memorized and spit out when the test day comes but as experiences of real live people who made choices and decisions and had revelations that impact the lives of other real people.

They deserve to get to do the work that generates more “why” questions, more “how” questions, and more “what if” questions.

As educators, we need to look beyond the posters we bought on Amazon or from the teacher store hanging on the walls of our classroom and think beyond the boxes of curriculum that arrive on our tables in August. None of that is learning. Those are resources to help support it. And this is why Joe Schmoe off the street cannot be a teacher–a teacher…a good one…learns over time how to use those resources as something to supplement learning…not to drive it. There’s good stuff in it, to be sure–sometimes there are great questions or ideas that you can steal to make a springboard for kids into a great discussion or great exploration of thought that leads to more questions.

That is learning.

Intensities

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Dabrowski, a Polish psychologist, explored overexcitabilities as a part of giftedness: intellectual, sensual, emotional, imaginational, and psychomotor.

As a teacher, I often saw these in the kids I taught–the child who can’t learn enough fast enough. The one who can’t handle the breeze from the windows or socks on their feet. The child who never. stops. moving and simply cannot sit still (ADHD is often misdiagnosed in gifted kids because of this one…). The one who tells fantastic stories to go along with games or whatever they’re learning and sees the movie in their head as they read in great detail. And the ones who get called “drama queen” who cries at the drop of a hat, gets angry or frustrated quickly, just can’t seem to get a handle on their feelings, or is anxiety ridden to the point that they can’t do anything. Some years, I had several of each in my classroom.

I learned to make agreements with kids that allowed them to do what they needed to learn. All kids had options for seating…the floor, the couch, tall tables, the counter, short tables, regular tables, different chairs, standing desks, wiggle seats… They had choices and once the novelty of each wore off, they all settled into whatever worked best for them on a given day.

The child who had an endless supply of energy sat at the side or in the rear of the room to let them move and not drive their classmates nuts. I never cared if they needed to stand, hop, pace…if they were participating and working and not bugging anyone else, it was fine. There were times that sitting was the only option, but I tried to make sure that they were able to expel SOME energy beforehand. GoNoodle, though it drove me insane, was a good outlet for many kids–brain breaks are the kid equivalent of AAWs (attitude adjustment walks) for adults. Errand running, like carrying a dictionary to the other end of the school to a teacher who needed it (wink, wink), was also a strategy I used.

The children who preferred a particular kind of pencil over another because of how it felt in their hands had access to them, though mechanical pencils were often temporarily banned for all the lead that ended up on the floor or shared with friends. Options for coloring were always available–some prefer crayons over markers. Types of paper, where they sat, lighting in their workspace, and whether or not they used noise canceling headphones or soft music were options too. I couldn’t fix the seams in their socks, but I was happy to cut a tag out of a t-shirt because they’re just annoying.

The kids who needed to learn everything and went down rabbit holes or needed create and do things differently got the chance to do that…with parameters. It was easier to encourage the use of their intensities than fight them. This made projects and ownership of work a pretty big deal because most, if not all, were able to do what they needed to learn and grow…

Those kids who got labeled “too dramatic” or “too emotional”…those were more complicated. It was one thing for them to sob while they read a book–I do that too. But when they’re little, it’s hard to regulate all the emotions all the time. And oh gosh if one was also an empath…they felt all their own feelings AND everyone else’s… It was simply a matter of talking them through it, honoring the fact that the big emotions were just going to happen and once they’d calmed down a bit we could come up with strategies to name them and work through them so they didn’t take over every time. The kids gradually learned how to articulate the feelings and ask for things like a quick bathroom trip, or a walk to another room, or even just a quiet moment or twelve.

Gifted kids are so often told that they are “too” everything–busy, fanciful, emotional, stubborn or rigid… Really though they aren’t “too” anything. This is a part of who they are. As they grow and learn, they develop ways to use those things as strengths.

The kid who couldn’t sit still does Ninja Warrior competitions and rock climbs and runs cross country. Another found gymnastics and dance…and those are their outlets.

The child who had to know everything about all the things does projects on their own and shares them with the class and others, making their invention something that everyone can take part in. And the ones with incredible imaginations create places and beings that fascinate their peers, drawing them in to their storylines. And often kids with these intensities go on to do lots of different things with their lives because there are SO many things to do when they grow up–why do just one thing forever?

The kid who refused to wear socks and had their shoes off as often as possible because they felt confined learned the beauty of Birkenstocks and lives in them. They wear soft shirts and pants or wear dresses that are flowy. They use music to drown out the noise in their space so they can work and has a nail file nearby to futz with while they’re thinking… Perhaps they become a chef later in life with a focus on creating meals with the RIGHT textures and smells and none of the wrong ones.

And those who feel all the feels…they go on to lots of different things. Writing, being an ear for those who need it, and the arts–because the arts bring joy to others…and makes them think too.

This is living Gifted.

None of these intensities go away, but kids learn (with our help) to direct them into productive work, thinking, and activity, rather than focusing on how different they are from their same age peers who don’t feel the same way. These aren’t things you can lock away in a box until the end of the school day, or work day. Educators and parents need to know how to help kids learn to use these “superpowers” for good as they grow older, and learn to advocate for what they need to help them manage whichever combination of intensities they happen to have–it’s rare to just have one.

These intensities are a part of who our gifted kids are, no different than the color and texture of their hair or the color of their skin. They’re not bad, just different.

Living Gifted is Living Different. And that’s a good thing. It keeps the world interesting.

Burst Bubbles

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Most of us, even as adults, can remember times when things didn’t go the way we’d hoped. He didn’t call, a test went badly, we didn’t get the job or the promotion, Santa didn’t bring the gift we’d asked for, our stimulus check had to pay for something un-fun and adult-y.

We’ve all had our bubbles burst in one way or another.

The same happens to our kids. The teacher’s reaction isn’t what we hoped (think that scene in A Christmas Story when Ralphie gets a C on his “What I Want for Christmas” theme paper). Our peers aren’t as interested in something we’re passionate about. We’re taught to advocate for ourselves and able to talk with one teacher, and the next nixes any discussion of our ideas and requires that we simply comply, telling our parents we’re disrespectful.

So how are we teaching our kids to cope when the burst bubbles come in waves, one after another and seem to never end? Do we tell them to suck it up, Buttercup? Do we tell them that everyone encounters setbacks and to get over it? Or do we help them talk it through to get at the meat of what the burst bubble really IS?

My hope is that it’s the latter. It’s not the lost opportunity, the disappointment, or the impact of someone else’s disregard that is bothering our kids, it’s what the things they hoped for represent:

Someone seeing them as special…or just SEEING them at all.

Someone latching on to the “fish” for connection.

Someone noticing that they tried and did the hard things even if it didn’t go well.

Someone respecting them enough to see their side of things and at least consider their ideas.

All kids want to be noticed, seen, and respected. For gifted kids though, their school experience is often one of being either overlooked by adults and peers or criticized for moving too fast, talking too much, being too sensitive, not being good at everything, or not doing the things they’re asked because they don’t see the point or need more direction or support. Getting at the heart of a burst bubble situation is an area of growth for many of our tall poppies because so often what’s on the surface isn’t the problem at all…it’s just a symptom.

For those who work with, parent, or support gifted kids in any way, start asking questions when a child comes to you upset that something didn’t go the way they hoped. Why was that thing important? Ask them to name the feelings around it–would they have felt accomplished, happy, worthy if it had gone well? Would it have changed a relationship? Would it have proven something to themselves?

The burst bubbles for gifted kids are often multi-dimensional and full of nooks and crannies that are worth exploring.

Wipeout

Coaching, Gifted, Gifted Best Practice, , , , ,

Most days, I feel as though I’m floundering from task to task on my to-do list, knowing each is important somewhere in the grand scheme of things, but still feeling unfulfilled and unsettled because despite knowing that all of it matters somewhere, it doesn’t feel like any of it is worthwhile and I find myself feeling resentful of everything. It’s like a never-ending game of “Wipeout” in which there is no winner.

This whole pandemic has been incredibly difficult because so much of it has simply been survival, jumping through obstacles to get through each day, each week, each month, and ending each day, week, and month deflated because goals and ideas have to be tabled in order to make room for the support of survival. So much of it has been taking on tasks and projects to ease burdens, fixing problems, figuring out how to overcome the seemingly endless roadblocks that get in the way, listening to others share their thoughts on all kinds of topics, all of it sounding like criticism even when it isn’t meant to.

And some days, despite the ever expanding to-do list of little tasks and checkboxes without checks in them, feelings of resentment and hopelessness, my bucket is filled by people who share the things that bring me joy, hope, and purpose and who share a piece of what I want my career to look like because it does make up a huge part who I am and my place in the world.

When I became a teacher, I was certain that I would remain in the classroom and had mixed feelings when I found that I wanted to do more and “more” would require me to give up my safe space where I had some semblance of control and felt confident (most of the time). I found that the “more” I sought would require being uncomfortable and unsure of myself, my knowledge, and my abilities.

I cannot afford another Master’s degree or a Ph.D. and I don’t know that either one would provide the growth I seek–the first Master’s degree certainly didn’t. I don’t enjoy formal research, nor am I eager to get bogged down in the endless stream of district level meetings, paperwork, school law, or waivers. I don’t want to be a principal when I grow up. This is as close to “admin” as I want to get, to be quite honest. And while I worry as I see so many friends who began their teaching careers around the same time as I did working toward administrator licensure that I am somehow behind and not heading in the right direction, I know that I would not be happy in a fully administrative position.

I get the opportunity to work on some level with several education-based organizations whose missions I truly believe in. Sadly, none of this work will pay a mortgage or buy food for furs who refuse to get jobs. Much of this work is far outside my comfort zone and challenges me to learn and grow in my knowledge of all that is Gifted.

I don’t claim to be an expert in gifted education and I never have–there’s so much to learn, I probably never will be an expert. Statistics and research studies don’t roll off my tongue in conversation about gifted education, but after serving and working alongside these kids for the past 15 years, I can tell you that they need advocates. They need someone who will stand next to them with guiding questions and encouragement while they try the things that make them uncomfortable, the things that aren’t typical, the things that don’t fit neatly into a Google form. They need someone who will go head to head with a colleague and say, “THIS is what she needs.” They need people who will “go to the mattresses” and fight for outside-the-box thinking to help a floundering gifted student. They need people who will provide support to educators serving them and preach challenging the process rather than quiet compliance from the rooftops. Gifted kids need something *different*in their educational experience, and doing the same thing as everyone else isn’t different enough.

Gifted kids need advocates who will focus on what’s most important, learning and growth, not checkboxes, to-do lists, and activities to prove they can regurgitate information. They need a cheering section when they take a risk and then hit an obstacle and wipeout, encouraging them to get out of the water and try again because that’s when the learning happens. And that is where I need to be, with others who will be their advocates and cheering section.

Photo by Guy Kawasaki on Pexels.com