Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 40

When it’s okay to be alone

When a student’s answer to a math problem differs from the rest of their classmates’ answers, I always celebrate that student.

Their answer may be wrong, and they might even be the only student to solve the problem incorrectly, but they were brave enough to offer it as a possibility.

They are known in my classroom as heroes.

When their answer is correct, they are heroes who saved the world.

I thought about this when I saw this image. Although I don’t think the artist intended the image to be inspiring when it was originally conceived, I find it incredibly inspiring.

Yes, it’s tragic that most of the children depicted are staring at their stupid screens — and yes, that reality is deeply depressing —  but the kid in the middle with the soccer ball is my hero.

I wish that kid had someone to play with.

I wish that kid were playing in an actual game.

I wish that kid didn’t feel so alone.

But I also know that kid is going to conquer the world.

Elysha renegotiates terms

More than twenty years ago, Elysha decided to move from her teaching job in a private Jewish Day School to a public school.

Thanks to this decision, we would one day meet and, about two years later, begin dating.

Part of the interview process for a teaching position is often a model lesson — an asinine piece of buffoonery. Candidates are asked to walk into a classroom filled with students they’ve never met before and teach a random lesson outside the current curriculum for 30 or 45 minutes, and somehow, this artificial piece of moronic minutiae is supposed to tell an administrator something about the person’s ability to teach children with all its complexity.

It’s ridiculous.

Happily, I was not required to jump through this hoop of stupidity when I was hired to teach, but sadly, Elysha was. She was asked to come to the school where I was working and teach a model lesson to a classroom of random children on a topic of her choice.

Perhaps recognizing the stupidity of this request, Elysha did something impressive:

She renegotiated the conditions of the lesson.

She agreed to teach the model lesson but asked to teach her own students. Since she already had a teaching job and a classroom of her own, she asked the hiring committee to come to her school.

They agreed.

Rather than teaching a lesson to students she didn’t know in a random classroom, she taught a lesson to her own students that she was planning to teach anyway.

And it worked. She got the job.

Hooray for her!

Hooray for our school!

Most importantly, hooray for me!

It’s a good reminder that the parameters, limitations, and expectations in almost every situation are negotiable.

What is offered to you is only the opening bid. While some situations may be decidedly less flexible, wiggle room can often be found.

I see Elysha do this all the time. In restaurants, for example, the table offered by the host is only the opening bid. It’s a proposal of where we might sit, but often, she will counter with a choice of her own.

Sometimes, I don’t even bother sitting down, knowing we will move shortly.

Negotiation is expected when purchasing a car or a home, determining a salary, outlining the parameters of a divorce agreement, and dealing with children and terrorists. However, recognizing that negotiation is often helpful in less expected situations is important, too. While I don’t think haggling over the price of a cup of soup or a speeding ticket is a good idea (though Elysha also managed to talk her way out of her only speeding ticket ever), opportunities exist — more than we might expect — when we can turn the balance of power in our favor or improve our situation considerably simply by asking for something different or better.

Elysha understands this.

I’m so grateful.

Not only has she taught me this lesson, but it has also led to my finding the best spouse in the world.

Strangest Uber ride ever

My strangest Uber ride of the summer:

In August, I arrived at Bradley International Airport at 5:00 AM to discover that my flight had been canceled due to the CrowdStrike issue.

I own stock in CrowdStrike, so this was a real punch in the face.

The Delta ticket agent solved my problem by arranging for an Uber to drive me to Logan Airport in Boston —  about two hours away —  so I could catch a flight there instead.

“You’re going to put me in an Uber and drive me to another airport?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Right now. I’ve already ordered it.”

Crazy. Right?

Just wait. It gets crazier. 

The Uber driver was a woman who had never driven outside Connecticut. She was nervous about driving me to Boston and told me so as I climbed into the car. 

I suggested she reject the ride and let me find another.

“No,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Do you have a fare coming back from Boston?” I asked. “Does this even make sense for you?”

“I’ll be fine,” she repeated.

She was not.

It started raining as we exited the Mass Pike, and the combination of heavy traffic and a downpour caused her to panic. Within minutes, she became weepy —actual tears in her eyes —and began audibly praying to God for help. 

“Please, God, help me through this terrible decision.”

“Please, God, stop this rain and keep us safe.”

“God, I need all your help right now to keep this car on the road.” 

You can imagine how I was feeling in the back seat.

Ten minutes later, she turned on the radio and tuned to a religious station playing upbeat music about Jesus and God.

It did not help.

As her panic increased and her weeping continued, I decided to get actively involved. I started by assuring her I had made this drive many times before. In fact, I had been performing in Boston the previous night and had just made the trip in reverse a few hours ago. 

Then I began breaking the trip into smaller, more manageable parts.

“First, we’ll get to Grafton. Grafton is our target. Just a few miles down the road. Once there, we’ll start thinking about Framingham and then eventually Natick, but let’s just start with Grafton. One small piece at a time.”

It helped a little.

Eventually, she called her sister to receive spiritual support. 

Her sister was on speakerphone, so I heard the entire conversation. Lots of talk about the Lord being on her side and having faith that he was watching over her. Eventually, the talk of faith in God turned into a conversation about making better choices in life, taking accountability for your actions, and “Growing the hell up.”

Not exactly supportive, but I didn’t disagree. 

Then she noticed she was running out of gas—enough to maybe make it to the airport, but not much more.

“I can’t put gas in your car,” her sister said. “So figure it out after you drop that man off.” Then she said goodbye and hung up.

We arrived at Logan Airport without a moment to spare.

“Where can I get gas?” she asked as I climbed out of her car.

“Not here,” I said. “Logan Airport is on an island. You need to go back through the tunnel and find gas in Boston.”

She began to cry again. “I don’t think I’ll make it.”

There was nothing I could do. I needed to sprint to catch my plane, so I said, “God wants you to find gas, so don’t worry. Go back through the tunnel, and you’ll find what you need.”

As a self-described reluctant atheist, it felt disingenuous to offer these assurances, but she needed something, and her sister was done helping her.

Then I was off. Since the airline arranged for and paid for the ride, I couldn’t even offer her a tip, though if anyone deserved additional compensation for the ride, it was me.

I assume she eventually made it home to Connecticut.

When I arrived in Denver, I discovered that Delta had accidentally booked my connecting flight to Calgary for the next day, so I was forced to purchase another ticket to Calgary on the correct day. But because that next-day ticket was never canceled (even though the Delta ticket agent said she would), Delta classified me as a “no-show” and canceled all my flights home.

If you don’t make your flight to a destination, the airline automatically cancels your return flights at that destination — assuming you no longer need them — and resells the tickets without ever refunding or notifying you.

I’m unsure if this is Delta policy or an industry standard, but it’s criminal either way.

 I did not discover this until two days later — at 4:00 AM, at a ticket counter in the Victoria airport — as I was trying to fly home. 

Quite a couple of days of travel.  

We say in storytelling:

 “You have a good time, or you have a good story.” 

I’m not sure if I had either. 

Clever but not so simple

This image seems clever—adults are so dumb for exercising indoors when the outdoor option exists—except the reality is very different.

My primary and daily means of aerobic exercise is bike riding. I own a traditional bike and an indoor bike, but I ride the indoor bike about 80% of the time for a few reasons:

The stationary bike allows me to exercise anytime — a rainy afternoon, midnight, freezing temperatures, etc.

Stationary bikes offer a better workout than riding on the streets. I can ride like hell without stopping for 45 minutes on my stationary bike, but when riding outdoors, intersections and traffic force me to frequently stop and allow for rest I don’t want. While riding my outdoor bike engages muscles not required on a stationary bike, my primary reason for riding is aerobic exercise, so the harder I can ride, the better. The stationary bike affords me that opportunity.

My NordicTrack makes this even more possible by increasing tension and the angle of the bike, thus forcing me to ride in ways I could not on the streets. My bike often simulates uphill climbs with no opportunities to coast, which annoys me but is also exceedingly good for me. In real life, there is no consistency of terrain, and since I don’t live beside a mountain, these strenuous, endlessly uphill rides aren’t available to me outdoors.

Owning a stationary bike allows me to get quick workouts whenever I want. If a client tells me she’ll be 15 minutes late for our meeting, I can jump on the bike for a 12-minute ride, grab a two-minute shower, and still be sitting in front of the computer with a minute to spare.

Or, since my meeting is on Zoom, I’ll skip the shower altogether and grab one later, giving me even more time to work out.

This happens all the time. I’ll exercise for five or ten minutes if I have time to spare. Every bit counts. For those of us who understand and embrace incrementalism, this is huge.

None of this would ever happen if I only owned an outdoor bike. Not only would I have difficulty judging a ten or twelve-minute route and returning home on time, but going to the garage, pulling the bike onto the driveway, and donning the helmet would steal at least three minutes every time.

And I’d never be able to squeeze in a five-minute ride on an outdoor bike.

I can also entertain myself while riding. Elysha and I probably watch about an hour or two of television a week — not because we don’t love TV, but because we prioritize other things ahead of it. But on the bike, I can watch anything on the iPad while riding. I’ve watched hundreds of movies and many television shows, sporting events, and comedy specials while riding, making it one of the rare instances when multitasking actually works.

For these reasons, I sit atop my stationary NordicTrack bike far more often than my outdoor bike.

Though these reasons don’t apply to me, many people choose stationary bikes because they are nervous about riding outdoors, and rightfully so. The fatality rate is disproportionately high for cyclists on the road – on average, 30 cyclists die for every billion miles traveled, compared with just two per billion miles for car drivers.

I’ve had three accidents while riding outdoors in the past four years. Two were caused by uneven pavement, and one was caused by an overhanging tree limb that was more substantial than I thought. All resulted in only minor injuries, but they serve as a reminder that riding a bike in a random world can be dangerous.

Indoor biking studios like the one shown in the cartoon also offer motivation for riding hard. I can adequately motivate myself and can’t stand to be told what to do, so a spinning class would make me want to deck the person leading the class, but many people need someone to encourage them to work harder.

Indoor bikes in studios like the one depicted also allow for competition, camaraderie, and social interactions. It’s almost impossible to carry on a conversation with a fellow cyclist while riding on the road, but friends can be made before, during, or after a spinning class.

If I have a choice, I choose my outdoor bike whenever possible because as much as I love my stationary bike, I prefer the outdoors. The fresh air, my interaction with nature, and the additional muscles engaged while biking on the road are all good for me, and riding on the streets is much more fun.

But if I prioritize my health, my time with family, and my work-life balance, the stationary bike makes more sense.

Stop complimenting students

As an elementary school teacher, I have made it my policy to avoid commenting on a student’s physical appearance for over two decades. A student’s appearance should be the last thing of concern to a teacher, but more importantly, these comments, even when positive, can be damaging and hurtful to kids.

Many of my friends and colleagues have scoffed at this policy. I have been laughed at and criticized for my position. I’ve been told that I am taking things too far, becoming too politically correct.

Yet I have articulated this position to every class of students over the past two decades, and I have never had a single student scoff, laugh, or even question my policy. Every student has appreciated and supported my position, and some have tried to adopt it as well.

It’s only certain adults who think I’m dumb.

A few years ago, just before the school’s choir performance, I watched a teacher compliment a young man on his appearance. The boy wore an impeccable suit and tie, and even his dress shoes gleamed in the dull glow of the hallway’s fluorescent lighting.

The teacher who complimented the young man was aware of my “no commenting on physical appearance” policy. After praising his appearance, she turned to me and asked how her complimentary words could ever be construed as hurtful to the child.

I pointed out to the teacher that while the young man was probably feeling great about her compliment, the boy to his left and the boy to his right, who were not wearing suits and had not received a similar compliment and who were perhaps from families who could not afford suits, ties, and gleaming dress shoes for their boys, might be feeling very differently as they took the stage.

Therein lies the danger.

As one who grew up in relative poverty, I know how it feels to hear your classmates and friends receive compliments for their appearance while you do not.

Worse, I know how it feels to receive a compensatory compliment from a teacher who suddenly realizes that they have probably made you feel lousy while gushing over your best friend’s appearance.

That student in the three-piece suit was also about to perform in a concert. The teacher had an opportunity to compliment the students’ effort, focus, collaborative spirit, or positive attitude. Instead, she complimented him on his physical appearance, thus reinforcing the importance of looking good over many other more meaningful attributes.

There are too many other things worth complimenting for any educator to be discussing physical appearance. Effort, sportsmanship, empathy, helpfulness, rigor, respect, friendship, and charity are just some of the areas in which teachers can easily offer meaningful, productive comments.

Not to mention that a student’s choice of clothing and haircut, especially in elementary school, are often not entirely within the child’s control. Often, a teacher’s compliment about appearance amounts to little more than a comment on how the student’s parent chose to send their child to school, making the words even less meaningful.

So, more than two decades ago, I decided to stop commenting on students’ physical appearance, and I have held this line ever since.

It hasn’t been easy.

A girl walks into my class with a new haircut and asks me what I think.

I say, “I don’t know about your hair, but I love how you use that brain underneath your hair to solve math problems.”

A boy walks into class with a new shirt promoting his favorite basketball team and asks me if I like it.

“I didn’t notice the jersey,” I say. “But I noticed the way you played kickball yesterday. You were a great sport. Good job.”

Sometimes, these exchanges are a little awkward, and sometimes, the kids think I’m a little crazy, but I would choose awkwardness and crazy over the alternative.

To counter the furrowed brows and confused stares, I have made it a habit to tell my students about my policy now. In almost twenty years, I have never had a student disagree with my rationale or debate my decision. In fact, almost every student responds positively to my policy.

Nevertheless, many educators and parents have told me that my policy is unrealistic and unnecessary. They typically bolster their arguments with statements like, “My teachers complimented me when I was a kid, and we survived,” and “These kids are going to hear compliments for the rest of their lives, so there’s no reason for us to be sheltering them now.”

These types of arguments boil down to nonsense like this:

If it worked for me, it should work for them.Change is not possible.One person can’t make a difference.If it will be bad later, it might as well be bad now.I like what I do and don’t want to change, but I have no rational argument to support my position.

But from tiny acorns, mighty oaks grow. That means someone needs to be an acorn. As awkward and crazy and divergent as that acorn may seem, someone must take the first stand.

Please don’t tell me my policy is foolish because no one else follows it.

Don’t tell me my policy is useless because everyone else in that child’s life will comment on physical appearance.

Change often begins with a few lone voices, and it turns out that I am not alone.

In a piece entitled  One Hundred Things Restaurant Staffers Should Never Do, Bruce Buschel writes:

“Do not compliment a guest’s attire or hairdo or makeup. You are insulting someone else.”

This man understands the inherent hazard of a compliment, particularly when it addresses physical appearance.

In a piece entitled How to Talk to Little Girls, Lisa Bloom writes:

“Teaching girls that their appearance is the first thing you notice tells them that looks are more important than anything. It sets them up for dieting at age 5 and foundation at age 11 and boob jobs at 17 and Botox at 23. As our cultural imperative for girls to be hot 24/7 has become the new normal, American women have become increasingly unhappy. What’s missing? A life of meaning, a life of ideas and reading books and being valued for our thoughts and accomplishments.”

Or watched Meaghan Ramsey’s TED Talk “Why thinking you’re ugly is bad for you.” She would agree with my policy wholeheartedly.

In the end, regardless of whether or not you believe that physical appearance should be a matter of discussion with students, there are far too many more important things to comment on during a school day for me to waste an ounce of breath or a second of time on a student’s dress or hairstyle or shoes.

I am too busy, minute by minute, helping children attain the skills they need to be successful in the future to waste a single moment on how they look.

Perhaps you are, too.

A study published by Captain Obvious

Findings from a recent study on the use of tablets and smartphones in early life:

Child tablet use at the age of 3.5 was associated with more expressions of anger and frustration by the age of 4.5. This increased anger and frustration at age 4.5 was then associated with more tablet use by age 5.5.

These results suggest that early childhood tablet use may contribute to a deleterious cycle of emotional regulation.

In other words, giving a kid a tablet prevents them from developing coping strategies and emotional regulation, which results in more tablet use to manage their terrible behavior, which results in even more problems with emotional regulation and more tablet use.

A vicious cycle that results in suffering for the child and anyone who must parent, teach, or otherwise manage that child.

On the one hand, these findings are exceptionally important for promoting the health and welfare of our children.

On the other hand, DID WE REALLY NEED A STUDY TO TELL US THAT HANDING YOUR TODDLER A PHONE OR TABLET IS A TERRIBLE IDEA?

We haven’t yet studied the effects of playing in traffic, but I suspect we all know what the results of that study will be, too.

Is handing a toddler a tablet on a regular basis any different?

Did anyone truly believe that handing a screen to a small child was a great idea?

The same goes for social media and phone use in general:

Does anyone really think that Instagram, TikTok, or Facebook are good for any child at any age?

Does anyone really believe giving an 8, 10, 12, or even a 15-year-old a phone—complete with unfettered access to social media and the internet—was ever a good idea?

Or was it just easier to give the toddler a tablet to placate their immediate needs?

Was it simply less fraught and contentious to hand over a phone to your fourth grader and give them access to social media?

Did giving your child a phone feel necessary because everyone else was doing the same?

Yes, I’m sure some parents handed their toddlers and young children tablets and phones and thought, “This device will serve my child well and most assuredly promote their emotional development and help make them a far better person.”

But I suspect the number of parents who actually think this is in the single digits.

Studies about the effects of screens on toddlers are important, but sometimes, the outcomes are as obvious as sunrise, and what we need isn’t more information but more appropriate action on what we already know.

RIP Lester Maroney

Today, I begin my 26th year of teaching elementary school.

I also learned yesterday that Lester Maroney, my friend and former high school French teacher of four years, sadly passed away in February. Mr. Maroney and I reconnected two years ago after I managed to locate his address and send him a lengthy letter describing the positive, memorable, and still echoing impact he had on my life.

We’d been exchanging letters ever since. I had wondered when I would receive another, but sadly, I have received my last.

Lester Maroney was an enormous figure in my high school career and significantly impacted my life.

A week rarely goes by when I don’t think of him fondly.

His hilarity, sincerity, and exceptionally unorthodox behavior allowed me to flourish in his class. I found my voice in Mr. Maroney’s classroom. I was allowed to be myself. I was permitted to make people laugh, challenge authority, dare to be different, and turn every French class into an adventure.

Admittedly, I also spent much of my time in his classroom sitting on a platform beside him because of my behavior, but even that was okay.

It meant I got to spend more time with the man.

I developed a great deal of confidence under Lester Maroney’s guidance during the four years I spent in his classroom. He made it a place of safety, honesty, and connection and set an example of what real confidence can look like.

He was a man who did not care what others thought. He dressed flamboyantly, skirted the rules whenever possible, spoke his mind, and taught in ways that likely made clueless administrators cringe.

Years ago, I found a record of successful legal action he took against the school after the principal reprimanded him for an incident in which he “made use of a learning center to socialize with students and became embroiled with the person in charge of the center.”

This sounds exactly like Mr. Maroney.

Mr. Maroney shared stories about his life in a way I had never seen a teacher do before. Every day, he came to French class with some bit of ephemera from his life, and with every utterance, I grew to trust and love this man more.

Mr. Maroney would also hand out detentions as if they were candy and would smile while doing so.

Forgot your homework? Detention.

Laughed at a joke? Detention.

Tripped while entering the room? Detention.

At one point, I had amassed 87 detentions, which he claimed was a world record. I spent most of them playing chess with him and chatting about life. It interfered with track and field practice quite regularly, but otherwise, it wasn’t bad. In fact, I think Lester enjoyed those afternoons together and was liberal in handing out detentions to me as a result.

Lester would also assign a zero as a test grade for poor behavior, meaning that despite your ability to speak, read, and write French, you could fail if you did not behave well. Then, on the cusp of the end of the quarter, he would offer extra credit assignments to erase those zeros and save your grade.

Lester was also fond of nicknames, so early into my freshman year, he began to refer to me as “Dickus.” This oddly didn’t seem too bad considering the other variations of my name used throughout my school career.

I began calling him Lester in response, and he didn’t complain.

When my brother came along a year later, Lester modified the name to accommodate Jeremy’s arrival. I became “Big Dickus” and my brother became “Little Dickus.”

A victory of sorts for me, I suppose.

Mr. Maroney could not have survived in today’s teaching climate, and that is a damn shame.

My high school didn’t offer a fourth year of French, so when I asked about the possibility of taking another year of foreign language, Mr. Maroney created an independent study for me, allowing me to tutor a French 3 class (which my brother was taking) while working on some more advanced assignments independently.

As a result, Mr. Maroney awarded me the French Award at graduation. He handed me that plaque onstage, shook my hand, and I never saw him again.

As a teacher, the lesson I learned from Mr. Maroney was simple but important:

The lessons we teach outside the curriculum make the biggest differences in a kid’s life. The examples we set, the confidence we nurture, the trust we grow, and the encouragement we offer students to find their voice and develop tenacity, grit, kindness, empathy, and relentlessness are far more important than the content we teach.

Today, I can speak a little bit of French, read a little more, and still recite French poetry by heart, though I don’t always know what I’m saying.

All of that is fine, but what Lester Maroney taught me about myself has made a lasting difference in my life.

It’s often said that “Content is king.” This may be true in the publishing and online world, but in teaching, content is never king.

Teachers who think “Content is king” fail their students.

Teachers are in the business of helping young people become the best versions of themselves. We teach kids to read, write, solve math problems, and all the rest, but in the end, the quality of their character will be most important when it comes to giving them a positive, productive, and happy life, regardless of that skill they learn or knowledge they acquire in our classroom.

Content should always play second fiddle to the important stuff. Lester Maroney taught me that. He changed my life because he believed it.

My life has been positive, productive, and happy, thanks in part to Lester Maroney.

Rest in peace, Mr. Maroney.

Things can always be better

Two expressions I heard spoken yesterday:

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

“Why reinvent the wheel?”

I hate these expressions.

These are words spoken by people who believe in complacency and stasis.

These are words spoken by people who don’t believe in making things better.

These are words spoken by people who can’t envision a better tomorrow.

These are words spoken by people who prefer to rest on their laurels.

Avoid these people at all costs.

What teacher’s need and deserve

The school year begins for me today. This will be my 26th year in the classroom—all in the same school and almost all in the same classroom. It’s a school where I met my wife, many of my friends, and many students who remain in my life long after their time in my classroom has come to an end.

How lucky I have been.

But it’s also a challenging time to be a teacher.

Emerging from the pandemic, children have enormous social, emotional, and academic needs. Many are struggling with trauma, the effects of prolonged isolation, and grief.

It’s all been incredibly, debilitatingly difficult.

It’s also been remarkably, joyfully, endlessly rewarding. Knowing that you make a difference in a child’s life—especially during these challenging times—has been a gift to most teachers.

In the face of these unprecedented challenges and sweeping changes, I would like to offer this advice on behalf of my fellow educators:

If you are an administrator — principal, superintendent, or anyone else occupying some place other than the classroom — and have not been a teacher for three or four years, please stop talking about what you think constitutes effective teaching and start listening to teachers. The pandemic has changed education — at least for a time — in profound ways. If you’re not in a classroom — especially not working in a school — your previous teaching experience is far less relevant than it once was.

If you are an administrator who hasn’t been in the classroom for a decade or more—especially if you’re not working in a school—please, by all means, shut the hell up and start listening to teachers. Your awareness of students’ needs and the challenges of a school day has all but evaporated with time.

If it’s been over a decade since you’ve stood before students daily, you honestly have little to say. You probably taught in an age before children carried cell phones. Maybe in an age before the internet became as ubiquitous as today. You’ve probably never had a class of students with laptops on their desks at all times. You probably didn’t teach during the extreme partisanship that has divided our nation. You may have been teaching before Sandy Hook or Parkland or Uvalde.

If it’s been longer than a decade since you last taught in a classroom daily, your job is to support teachers by constantly and carefully listening to them and working like hell to meet their needs. Your opinions on teaching are almost irrelevant unless they come from the people doing the job daily.

Here’s the thing about teachers:

None of us went into this profession to get rich.

None of us saw teaching as an easy job.

None of us want to fail.

For many teachers, the week before school begins is filled with sleepless nights, constant worry, and furious planning because they want to be the very best for their students and relentlessly worry that they might fail.

I once worked with a veteran teacher of more than two decades who would throw up the night before the start of every school year.

Teachers want to succeed on behalf of their students.

So if a teacher asks you for a tool, it’s because we know—better than you could—that we need it.

When we tell you that the curriculum is atrocious, it’s because we know — far better than you ever could — that the curriculum is atrocious.

If we tell you that an assessment is useless, it’s because we know—better than you ever will—that it is useless.

When we tell you a policy is not working, it’s not because we are trying to make our lives easier. It’s because your policy sucks.

Plato Karafelis, my first principal—who served for 25 years in the school where I am beginning my 26th year today—often pointed out in faculty meetings that he hadn’t taught in a classroom for 12 or 15 or 20 years. “How could I pretend to know what your job is like anymore?” he would say. “I need you to tell me what I need to know. Tell me what you need so I can do my best to support you.”

This impressed the hell out of me.

But that type of leadership is hard to find these days. Many administrators who once taught in bygone days—pre-pandemic, pre-digital, pre-computers in your pocket, pre-murder in the classroom, pre-social media—think they understand the job. They think their opinions on pedagogy, curriculum, and assessment are relevant in today’s teaching environment. They spout theories, opinions, and policies from ivory towers when they know nothing about the realities of a classroom today.

I was named West Hartford’s Teacher of the Year in 2006. If that same 2006 version of me appeared in my classroom today, I would be a tragically ineffective teacher for my students. It would take me at least a year and a lot of work to become highly effective again. The world has fundamentally shifted since my first few years of teaching. If you’ve been teaching in the classroom during that time, you, too, have shifted along with it.

But if you’ve spent your time outside the classroom, in some office or ivory tower, you know little about classroom instruction. You know lots of other things, I’m sure — essential and valuable, for sure — but if you don’t work with kids, you don’t understand the realities of the classroom in today’s world, and that, more than anything, is what teaching is about.

So, in these challenging times, I implore administrators—especially those not working inside schools—to stop thinking that they know anything about what is going on in the classroom and start relentlessly and religiously asking teachers what they need to be successful.

Ask them all—the compliant ones, the nonconformists, the rookies, the veterans, the rabble-rousers, and everyone in between.

Every teacher has a list of what they need to help students learn better. Ask them for their list, and don’t waste their time explaining why the items on their lists are unimportant, too expensive, unrealistic, or not needed.

Stop assuming you know anything and ask them. Listen to them. Act upon their requests whenever possible. When it’s not possible, find a way to make it possible. That is why your job exists.

If you can’t bring yourself to do these things, then be quiet. Don’t become an obstruction to good teaching. Stay the hell out of our way.

And please don’t make the mistake of thinking this is one person’s opinion or that I’m speaking about my school district. As a public figure, I hear from teachers all over the country. This is not a problem in a single school district or a small handful of school districts.

I hear from struggling teachers all the time. I listen to their stories of struggle, heartache, and the desire to do well in the face of administrators who fail to meet their needs daily. I hear about administrators who think they know something but know almost nothing.

There isn’t a teacher I know who doesn’t feel similarly. Teachers tend not to be boat rockers. Many are rule followers. Even more are people-pleasers. Most are simply too invested in their students to fight against blind, incompetent administrative buffoonery.

But they all are feeling these pressures. They all want more for their students. They all need more support. They all wish people who have not occupied a classroom for 5 or 10 or 20 years would do much less talking, a lot less demanding, and a lot more listening.

I want to stand on the highwire for one specific reason

My friend Chris and I entered a club in New York City last year. I was scheduled to perform in a storytelling show, but we arrived early and found ourselves in the middle of a comedy show.

A comedian onstage was bombing badly. Suffering. Making the audience suffer, too.

“I want to go up,” I whispered to Chris.

“What?” he asked.

It was true. I wanted to take the stage and save the show.

Please note:

I had nothing prepared. I had no idea what I might do once I took the microphone. And although I perform stand-up comedy—just last week in Ottawa—I’m not great. I can hold my own and make people laugh, but no one leaves one of my shows thinking I’m hilarious.

Still, I wanted to go up.

I told this story to Charlie while we talked about the desire to stand at the plate in the ninth inning with the game on the line.

I’ve always wanted to be in that position. Last at bat. Final shot. Must-make putt.

When I competed in debate competitions in college, I was always the anchor.

When I ran the 4 x 100 for my high school track team, I always wanted to be the anchor.

When my Boy Scout troop competed in the swim carnival at summer camp, I always swam the marathon—the last event of the competition and the one that offered the most possible points.

Charlie thinks I’m crazy. He never wants to be in that position.

I was surprised, but based on conversations with others since then, fewer people want to perform when everything is on the line than I had initially thought.

Almost no one, at least according to my limited anecdotal survey.

And it’s not because I expect to succeed every time. Striking out is always a possibility, and I know that well. Missing the shot, failing to sink the putt, falling short of the finish line, and losing the game or match is always possible.

I could’ve easily bombed just as badly as the comic on stage that night in New York.

Still, I always want to be at the plate if the game is on the line. Regardless of the competition, I wanted to be the one to decide the game.

I wasn’t sure why this was the case.

I wondered if it was because I don’t trust others as much as myself in these critical moments.

Maybe I suffer from some ridiculous hero complex.

Perhaps I just love the spotlight.

Sharing this story with a friend last week, he knew the answer instantaneously.

“You’re not afraid to fail.”

As soon as he spoke the words, I knew they were true.

I don’t expect to be the savior in every one of these moments. I don’t expect to succeed every time. But if I strike out or miss the shot or leave the putt short or bomb onstage or otherwise fail to rise to the challenge and win the day, it’s okay.

He’s right. I’m not afraid to fail.

My acceptance that I can’t always succeed, combined with my general lack of concern for what others might think and perhaps a little too much self-confidence, allow me to fail without my failure to bother me very much.

That’s why one of my favorite performances is “Matt and Jeni Are Unprepared,” a show where my friend Jeni and I improvise competitive stories onstage without any preparation.

If I fail in this ridiculous highwire act, it’s okay. Failure is part of life and does not impact my sense of self.

Someone once told me that he stopped playing golf because he couldn’t break 100 and was playing with people who were routinely breaking 90 and even 80. He couldn’t stand to be the worst player in the group every time he played.

That was the case for me for at least a decade. I started playing golf with people who had been playing well for years, and it took me years — a decade at least — to produce semi-reasonable scores.

But quit the game because everyone hits the ball longer and straighter than me?

Never.

I felt sad for the guy. His ability to play a game he enjoyed was predicated on his performance.

He was afraid to fail.

My advice:

Don’t be afraid to fail. Life is much more fun and a lot less stressful when your sense of self hinges on the outcomes of your endeavors.

This isn’t to say I’m not sad, disappointed, or even angry when I lose, but my feelings about the loss remain firmly entrenched within the confines of the contest and dissipate quickly.

As Marcus Aurelius said:

“How easy it is to repel and to wipe away every impression which is troublesome or unsuitable, and immediately to be in all tranquility.”

Easy indeed.

Experience the disappointment. Perhaps learn something from your failure. Move on.

But I suspect that not being afraid to fail isn’t like a light switch.

You can’t just switch it on.

I’m not sure where it comes from, but it makes life a bit easier and perhaps a little more fun.

If you can flip that switch, I highly recommend it.