I attended Joel Bezaire‘s Sports Analytics session at TMC18. It was awesome! Joel has done an amazing job developing a curriculum based on Sports Analytics. I decided to share a lesson I did this past year involving sports. It’s nowhere near as good as Joel’s lessons, but I think it could be something with a little work.
One storyline during the 2017-18 NBA season involved the advanced age of the Cleveland Cavaliers roster. In October, ESPN’s Brian Windhorst published the article “Cavs the oldest in a long line of old LeBron teams.” The article contained the table shown below:
I presented this table and the article’s headline to my Integrated Math 1 students and asked them to Notice and Wonder. This was quite a few months ago, so I don’t really remember how the discussion went. We ended up talking about whether it made sense to use the average to determine the NBA’s oldest team. I proposed a roster consisting of three of my 14-year-old students, my pregnant colleague’s soon-to-be-born child, and one of my colleagues who I joked was 185. They quickly saw that this team’s average age would reveal very little about how old or young the team really was. We decided that we needed a better way to discuss a team’s age.
From this point, the lesson didn’t go how I had hoped. I gave every student or pair of students a team roster and told them that I wanted the class as a whole to find a way to compare team ages across the league. I provided the entire class with a single piece of poster paper that they could use to present the information using whatever representation they liked. Although I didn’t say it, my intention was for students to make a box plot for each team. If nothing else, I expected students to go beyond simply reporting an average age. The results were decidedly mixed. I think this task focused too heavily on calculation and representation, and it did not focus enough on thinking and discussion. Interestingly, several students told me then and later in the year that they really enjoyed getting to work with the NBA rosters. There’s definitely the potential for a good activity here; I just haven’t found it yet. Let me know if you have any ideas!
July 27, 2017: The Terror of Twitter Math Camp
July 18-19, 2018: #descon18 and day one of #TMC18
Something has changed. It’s all still here – the anxiety, the relentless train of thoughts, the confusion about what to say and where to sit, the feeling that I don’t really belong. It’s all still here. But it’s better. It’s better. I know people.
When I arrived Wednesday morning, I sat at a table in the atrium to collect myself. Lisa Henry came over to welcome me. I talked with Dave Sabol, who I knew from my time student teaching at Saint Ignatius, for a few minutes, and as I sat waiting in Rade Dining Hall, Cindy Reagan, another Ignatius teacher I know, sat down and talked with me. At one point, Chris Luzniak, my TMC mentor last year, came over, gave me a hug, and asked about how my year went. I exchanged smiles with a number of people who remembered me from last year, even if they didn’t know my name or hadn’t really talked to me before. This morning, Joel Bezaire greeted me by name at his morning session. Mark Kaiser, another Ignatius teacher, sat next to me for My Favorites and the Keynote, and we chatted. When I arrived at an afternoon session, Lisa Bejarano and Kent Haines greeted me. Lisa gave me a hug and mentioned that she saw me tweeting so knew I was around somewhere. It’s an unfamiliar feeling: Someone knows I’m here.
I was never an especially social kid. I’m not sure I really knew how to be social, how to have friends, how to exist in “that” world. Two memories stand out. I recall getting together with a friend shortly after high school. “Okay, Dan, I guess I’ll see you in six months.” That’s what he said to me when we parted. It wasn’t meant in a sarcastic or cruel manner. I suppose in a sense it was almost wistful. He knew a simple truth: Even if he asked me to do something every day, it would likely be a long time before I agreed to do anything again. Whether it was shyness or laziness or anxiety or apathy or something else entirely, I simply did not spend much time being social.
The other memory involves the transition from fifth grade at an elementary school to sixth grade at the middle school. Because the middle school brought students together from four different elementary schools, the school tried to make sure that every student shared homerooms and teams with at least a few other people from elementary school. I did not. Well, that’s not exactly true. I knew Troy and Mike. They had never been what I’d call friends. They were just two boys that I knew. We got along fine; we just never had much occasion to spend time together in elementary school. But they were really the only two people I knew in sixth grade. The three of us made an odd bunch, but at least we had a group. I guess you could say we took care of each other socially. None of us were especially outgoing, and we were close to as far from popular as one could get. But we had our friendship, and I think it meant something for all of us. Although it’s been twenty years, I still remember the day I dropped my pencil box on the stairs and Troy came over and blocked the stairwell so that I could pick up my supplies. Maybe it’s not the most exciting or heartwarming childhood memory, but it has stuck with me for this long. I imagine it always will.
Marian Dingle spoke today about her children’s experiences in school. She told us how her son and daughter both had teachers with whom they formed no real connection, teachers that didn’t know them, teachers that made school a less welcoming place. For Marian’s daughter, sports, which sometimes serve to bring people closer, only seemed to exacerbate the feeling of not belonging. Despite Marian’s best efforts as team mom, her daughter did not develop the sense of kinship with her school volleyball team that is the hallmark of great youth sports programs. Fortunately, Marian’s daughter found this connection with her club volleyball team, and fortunately, Marian’s daughter had parents who strove to help her center herself in family, in community, and in her culture.
But what about the kids who don’t have this? What about the kids who walk into class and don’t know where to sit? What about the kids who hate group work because they know that no one will want to work with them? What about the kids who hope every day that they’ll be able to find an open seat in the cafeteria? What about the kids who believe that no one notices them? What about the kids who think their voices are never heard? What about the kids who feel like they just don’t belong? And maybe they don’t belong because we don’t let them belong or help them belong or provide a space for them to belong in. And maybe we don’t notice them and we don’t hear them because we don’t try to hear them or we don’t want to hear them. And maybe we just tell them to sit anywhere or to make a new friend or to just ask someone else in class because that’s what we would do and it seems so simple unless you’re 13 and you feel like you don’t belong. And maybe we send the message every single day that they really don’t belong. Intentionally or not, maybe everything we say and do sends that message. And maybe they see that message and hear that message every day at school. And we don’t do anything about it.
I teach at the middle school I attended. I’ve lived in the same community for my entire life. I don’t have any answers or at least not enough answers. All I have is the will to keep trying. To keep asking questions. To keep fighting. Because they do belong. And they deserve better.
Thank you Lisa and Dave and Cindy and Chris and Joel and Mark and Lisa and Kent and everyone else. You’ve made a difference for me. And thank you, Marian, for sharing your story and for fighting for kids.
What follows are my thoughts on the response to the Marzano tweet shown below. I offer these thoughts as my way of grappling with an important issue in education – the interplay between educators and non-educators. My intention is not to criticize or disparage any individual but to work toward a way for me to understand discourse about education. I hope that I at least partly achieve this goal.
Robert Marzano is an educational researcher, consultant, and chief academic officer at Marzano Research. I know him primarily from his book The Art and Science of Teaching.
I did not have the same visceral reaction to the Marzano tweet that so many others did. That’s not to say I liked it. It just didn’t upset me. I have too much on my mind to worry about what Robert Marzano thinks. But I understand why so many teachers felt compelled to criticize him. When someone shares a message about education that we know is false, misleading, or harmful, it’s important for us to dispute that message. It’s important for us to share our own knowledge and perspectives. We can’t let a false narrative dominate. So I understand the response to the Marzano tweet.
But I also don’t understand the response to the Marzano tweet. I saw quite a few comments about Marzano’s background. People criticized him for only having spent two years in the classroom and for not having been in the classroom for 30+ years. The message here seems to be “Who are you to say anything about teaching when you don’t even teach?” I find this troubling.
Are teachers the only ones with valuable insights into teaching? Is anyone else qualified to share their opinions about education? Should we reject all educational research unless it was conducted by a classroom teacher? How long can you be out of the classroom and still have a worthwhile perspective? Coaches and administrators aren’t classroom teachers – do their contributions have any value? What about counselors and school psychologists? Who do we consider close enough to the classroom to judge their ideas worth considering?
Politicians, to take one example, rarely have teaching experience. Yet politicians write every education law, and all too often, teachers have little to no input in the legislative process. It can be distressing to think that education policy has largely been crafted by people with little to no experience as educators. They rely, of course, on input from many groups – researchers, lobbyists, etc. – but ultimately, the politicians pass the laws.
Is it fair to criticize politicians for education law? I think so, but the target of the criticism matters. It’s fair to say that a law is bad policy. It’s fair to say a law is based on shoddy research. It’s fair to say a politician didn’t consult with enough people or with the right people. It’s fair to disagree with a politician’s beliefs, and it seems fair to question a politician’s knowledge and understanding of issues in education. But is it fair to criticize a politician for never having been a teacher?
Ideas should be judged based on their merit. Anyone can have a great idea. An idea isn’t great because it came from a teacher; it’s great because it’s useful somehow. Similarly, a bad idea isn’t bad because it came from a non-teacher. An idea is bad because it offers nothing useful or it’s harmful or it ignores the research or it’s based on misconceptions or for any of a number of other reasons. The idea itself must be flawed. An idea isn’t bad simply because of who offered it.
Perhaps it’s more likely for bad educational ideas to come from non-teachers and for good ones to come from teachers. But we all know that not every idea a teacher has is a good one, and I hope we’ve all heard good ideas from non-teachers.
I don’t agree with the message Marzano shared in his tweet. I don’t agree with it because it’s wrong for so many reasons that people have already shared. It’s wrong if Marzano hasn’t taught in 30 years, and it’s wrong if he went back in the classroom today. What matters is the quality of the idea itself. I worry about what happens to discourse when we reject an idea because the person who suggested it lacks a certain title, background, or experience. But I also wonder how to reconcile this worry with the reality that everyone considers themselves qualified to offer opinions on educational issues. Is there a clear line somewhere? It’s certainly not “teacher vs. non-teacher.” After all, some of the best ideas in math education right now come from Desmos and Illustrative Mathematics, and as far as I can tell, most of their employees are not currently in the classroom. I don’t have an answer. I’m not sure there is an answer. I just needed to write this all down.