A Time to Disconnect

We are on the eve of the winter solstice in the Northern Hemisphere. The time of the year when the Earth is physically closest to the sun but tilted the furthest away. That means on December 21, the sun will rise in St. Johnsbury at 7:20 AM and will set at 4:11 PM, giving us a paltry eight hours and fifty-one minutes of daylight. It really doesn't seem like enough, does it? 

Add to this the reality of education and life in 2020, and, candidly, it may even feel darker. However, I offer that there is plenty to celebrate. 

I begin with our students and their families. School has not looked anything like it usually does. Despite some adults' worries, our students have worn their masks with fidelity and with pride, only occasionally needing reminders. Their families have juggled work, school, and life in a hybrid model designed to slow the spread in a building that, when full, is home to almost 800 people daily. Thank you for making this year work in St. Johnsbury. 

Next, I move on to our teachers. They have persevered, as this virus has upended everything they were taught about education. They made connections, reached our students, and found new and creative ways to teach while being physically distant from their favorite little people. Our teachers are proving again to be consummate professionals, adding integrity and honor to the word educator. 

I continue with our paraprofessionals. They have worked to find new and inventive ways to support our teachers and our students. Perhaps their work has never been more critical to our success as a school. Their work's selfless nature ensures that our students, sometimes our most vulnerable, feel the human connection that we know allows them to grow and learn. 

I cannot say enough about the individuals in Food Service. They have made it possible for our students and anyone eighteen and under to eat. These dedicated individuals have served our stomachs and hearts with the same consistency we have come to know and expect from them. 

The lack of superlatives continues to elude me when I think about our Facilities Staff. This year, in particular, they have redefined stewardship for me, as they juggled the reality of the pandemic with the bond construction and the increased protocols for cleaning our campus. These dedicated men and women do a thankless job regularly, and they do it in a way that should make our entire community proud. 

We could not do this work without our Leadership Team - our Principals, our Directors of Early Education, Finance, Learning Design, and Student Support Services. Their dedication to our students, faculty, staff, and community is evident in the thoughtful way they have approached the various directives around education in the midst of this troubling virus. Our conversations are safe places for disagreement; they are full of respect and often punctuated with laughter and compassion. None of the decisions we have made would have been possible without them. 

Finally, we are all guided by the public service of our Board of School Directors. Under the leadership of Mark Avery, these five individuals ensure that the mission is a reality for all of our students, not just written on paper. Their encouragement and support, along with thoughtful and persistent questioning about the impact on students, staff, and families, gives life to the policies our district enacts. 

With all this support, I am so incredibly proud that we have only had a handful of positive cases in our building, and none - not one - was a case of school transmission. The guidance and protocols have helped us maintain as much in-person learning as possible in these first three months. And we look forward to welcoming back all of our PK - 6 students in 2021 if the numbers in our county and our town continue to trend lower. 

With so much to celebrate, despite the lack of natural daylight, might I suggest one thing that we all commit to during the Winter Holiday Break? Disconnect. From work, at least. 

Yes, I know we will need to use technology to be in our loved ones' lives, given the requirement for physical distancing. So I don't mean like that. I mean, it's time to put work away. 

For most of us in education and the families we serve, work has been a constant since March. Even the summer did not feel truly like summer since there was so much uncertainty about our return. Now, though, we know what the first two weeks of January will look like. And we also know what school will look like beginning on Tuesday, January 19. 

So with all that, the gift I hope you can all celebrate with your loved ones this break is this: work disconnection.

Doctor's orders (wink). 

Photo courtesy of carriecolbert.com

On Empathy

I've been thinking a lot about empathy lately - and I'm not 100% sure why. I know there is a substantial lack of it in our world currently, which is troubling because now we might need it more than ever. I can't quite put my finger on the reasons why this time in our world is pulling us further and further apart rather than bringing us together. 

Yes - I can clearly see the political divisions. Sadly, this has also eroded our confidence in the science of this virus that continues to make its way through our state. In addition, we are being asked to stay physically distant from each other so that this insidious disease stays at bay while we await a vaccine that hopefully will begin to turn the tide on rising case counts, slow the positivity rate, and stop people from dying. 

One of the things I see almost everyone struggling with, besides day-to-day living, is something I heard described as "decision fatigue." It impacts everyone, regardless of who you are or what you do. I offer the following anonymous examples to consider: 

Think about the single parent, with a child in a hybrid model, hoping to find an affordable daycare option still, for the days her children are learning from home. If she sends her children to a neighbor who has offered, how much of a risk are they taking when they both violate the ban against multi-household gatherings? 

Think about the aging senior citizen, lonely from the isolation of the past nine months, longing to see her family in person, to give and to receive a hug. If she fails to quarantine for the full fourteen days to make the holiday celebration work, who is most at risk when they finally see each other? 

Think about the teacher, struggling under the weight of illogical public expectations during this pandemic. She hears that over the weekend, one of her students has traveled out of state to see extended family, that another has had a sleepover with friends, and still another has had a playdate with someone outside of their pod. What does she do with this information? 

Think about the principal, watching and feeling the morale fall in her building. Despite taking everything that is not required off of the teachers' plates, there is still a palpable, tense feeling in the hallways. How can she meet the needs of the people in the building going forward? 

Think about the superintendent, trying to delicately balance the need to protect public health for students, teachers, and community members. While she is confident there are no school transmission cases yet, she worries about the upcoming Winter Holiday break and how to address what a return to school in January should look like. How can she keep everyone safe and healthy? 

Think about the governor, seeing the state she loves struggle to find a way through this dire time. For the first time in her leadership, public health takes priority over anything else. Yet, segments of the population choose not to follow the directives designed to slow the spread, but that also impact the economic well-being of the citizenry. How can she balance human fragility with economic reality? 

Each of these individuals is trying to be brave while at the same time meeting the needs of the people they are responsible for and to. Each of these individuals wants to make the best decision that balances freedom with public health. Each of these individuals struggles with the guilt and worries about the shame resulting from whatever decision is made. 

We are not immune to this. We all have families. We all care deeply. We all want to do what is right for our family and the people we are responsible for. But because of the nature of this virus, our decisions impact others. 

In the same way that this virus does not discriminate which human being it invades, nor does the weight of these decisions discriminate what heart it troubles. We are all struggling with this. We are all wondering how best to move forward. We really are in this together. 

If we can reflect on this for just a moment, perhaps we can give each other what I believe would be the greatest gift this 2020 holiday season. 

We could give each other our empathy.

A Light in the Darkness

One of the absolute joys of working in education is having the opportunity to be in awe of children. Consider this as an example: while we were preparing for the return to school this past spring and summer, many people, with microphones and newspaper ink at their disposal, wondered aloud about whether or not children would be able to manage wearing masks. With very, very few exceptions, our students are consistently wearing their masks. 

For some children, this is a break from the norm. They experienced a typical school year last year until the middle of March, and when they returned, in the case of St. Johnsbury, they have half their classmates and are wearing masks all the time. However, for some of our youngest members of our learning community, this is their first education experience. For all they know, masks are a part of how we are in school. 

This is no small feat. Wearing a mask all day is challenging, even for adults. Occasionally when I'm visiting a classroom, I see a kiddo whose mask has slipped on their face a little bit. A simple gesture, pulling on my own mask in the right direction, is enough to help return the mask to the safe location, over their nose and mouth. Our children deserve a lot of credit. 

But this past Friday, something happened in our building that is truly inspiring. Our Upper School Principal, Jeremy Ross, was called to a 4th-grade classroom, with the message that a student had a note for him. Here's what the note said: 

Dear Mr. Ross, 

Since I enjoy learning at school so much, I wanted to give back. Each month I get an allowance of ten cents for each chore I do each day. Some goes to my college account. Some stays with me. And some goes to charity. 

So this fall I choose to donate 100 dollars to our school to help with supplies for students and teachers during the hard time of COVID. 

"I choose to donate." 

No one is forcing this young man to give this money to us. No one is making this young man share some of his allowance with us. No one is saying this is where your money has to go. 

"I choose to donate... since I enjoy learning at school so much." 

It is tough to measure how well schools meet our students' needs in years when we are not experiencing a global health pandemic. Too often "experts" rely on testing that happens only once a year, which really only measures how well students take tests, not the knowledge they have in their heads. Then those "experts" report out the results in sound bytes, easily repeatable. In Vermont, it is then accompanied by a call to reduce education spending, an easy target in our state. 

What our faculty and staff are doing this year is nothing short of heroic. It is nothing short of phenomenal. It is nothing short of life-changing. In case you were wondering, that happens each year, but this year in particular, within the context of our public health crisis, it is truly exemplary. 

Not sure if hybrid learning is working in our building? We have a ten-year-old boy, earning ten cents a day for allowance. If he's donating $100, then it's taken quite some time to amass enough to go to his college account, for his own piggy bank, and then to donate to us. 

We are approaching the time in our calendar when the Earth is physically closest to the sun but tilted away, reducing the hours of daylight we have in the northern hemisphere. Coupled with the state of the COVID-19 virus, it would be easy to believe we are surrounded by near darkness. And yet, I offer that our school continues to be a place where young people, inspired by their teachers, like Callum, are guiding us through this time. 

They are a light in the darkness. 

Co-Principal Jeremy Ross, with our selfless 4th Grader Callum

How Do You Carve a Turkey?

I'm 46 years old, and for the past 45 years, someone else has carved the turkey. For my first eighteen years, it was my dad, as we all celebrated either at the home I grew up in or at my Nana's house. Come to think of it, he carved it through college, and in my first years as a volunteer teacher. For the last twenty, I've spent Thanksgiving with my in-laws, and again, I didn't have to carve. Even for our Friendsgiving that we typically host, one of my dear friends carves the turkey for us. Usually, for that feast, we have a bird that is north of thirty-five pounds. It's a sight to see. 

But this year, as you all know, was different. No Friendsgiving. No dinner with my in-laws. It was a Thanksgiving at our table, where we have every dinner together. Just the four of us and a sixteen-pound turkey that had been cooking since 10:15 AM on Thanksgiving Day. So as I pulled the bird from the oven to let sit for thirty minutes, I did what everyone else does when they don't know how to do something: I googled it!

My Wife and I sat together and watched a one minute video on how to carve a turkey. Here's what you do: 

1. Start with the legs - remove them entirely. 
2. Then slice the breast meat along the ribcage. 
3. Finally, remove the wings completely. 

Once we followed these steps, we sliced the larger portions into manageable pieces for everyone's plate. And it was done. I had carved a turkey. 

I know it's not rocket science for some, and yes, I've been privileged to be at a table for the first 45 years of my life where someone else has done it. So it was new learning for me. 

Sometimes new learning is scary. I felt a little bit of pressure - cooking a turkey, and knowing I would have to carve it myself, having never done it before. I'm not always good at asking for help, nor do I always like venturing into new territories with a fair amount of risk. 

Part of the responsibility of learning something new is passing it on to others, to share your gift of knowledge. I'm no expert, and truth be told, when we have our next Friendsgiving, I'm still going to rely on my dear friend Scott Hill to carve that massive bird. It's a tradition and something to look forward to. 

But for now, I've done it once, and I'd be happy to be a wingman for anyone trying it for the first time. 

I know how to carve a turkey. 

Photo courtesy of www.industryconnect.org

Giving Thanks for Teachers

I can remember the exact semester in college when I knew I wanted to be a teacher. It was the spring of 1994, and I took one of the two education courses the College of the Holy Cross offered at that time. Denis Cleary, himself a Holy Cross graduate from the Class of 1971, was the professor while also teaching full-time at Concord-Carlisle Regional High School. Cleary was engaging and inspiring while at the same time, not sugar-coating the work it takes to be a high-quality teacher. 

As a part of the syllabus, we read Savage Inequalities by Jonathan Kozol. The entire book was stunning to me, but particularly this fact: in 1986 - 1987, the Mt. Vernon Public School System spent $6,433 on my seventh-grade education. The neighboring town of Bronxville, NY, spent $10,113 on their seventh-graders' education. That's an almost 60% difference for those who lived less than ten minutes from my home. Why was my education worth less than someone else's? This question drove me into the field of education. 

The desire to teach has led me on a varied path over the past twenty-five years. I've taught classes from first grade to high school to graduate school and many of the grades in between. The path has also led to leadership opportunities, including the last nine years serving as a superintendent. Whether in the classroom or in a leadership role, I've watched the trends in education, school safety, funding, and sports. There's always been a sense of "do more with less," and somehow, we've come to know this as a regular part of our educational landscape. There's something about the selfless nature of teaching, the "other-centeredness" of education, that has led to a tacit acceptance of this mantra. 

Perhaps is the uncertainty of this pandemic's end. Perhaps it's the frustration with the haphazard approach to slowing it nationally. Perhaps it's the violation of the public health directives displayed on social media. 

We all enter into education for different reasons. I don't know what inspired my colleague superintendents or the educators in my building. I do know this, though, I did not choose this profession to be an essential worker. And yet, here in 2020, my teachers are essential workers. 

I chose not to be a firefighter for many reasons, the main one being, I know I'm not a human who wants to run into a burning building. I want to be the person walking out. I can honestly and humbly say that I'm a helper, not a saver. 

I'm aware that my teachers are experiencing something this year that I never experienced as a teacher. I don't know what it's like to show up to a classroom full of children who may have the COVID-19 virus. I don't know what it's like to be afraid of the choices families made over the weekend. I don't know what it's like to truly have concerns about safety in the classroom - a place that is supposed to be sacred for students and teachers alike. 

And while my teachers are doing this, teaching in the most stressful year of their entire careers, they're being watched and scrutinized to a higher level than normal. And that's saying something. This is not doing more with less. This is moving mountains with less. 

While there won't be anything "normal" about this year's Thanksgiving, I owe, we all owe, a debt of gratitude for the teachers that are showing up every day to teach. I am asking that every person reach out and say thank you to a teacher this week. Find the time. Make the time. Teachers are already superheroes, and this year, more than ever, they need to feel our love and our gratitude. 

In a tweet last March, Nicholas Ferroni (@NicholasFerroni) shared that this pandemic has already revealed three things: 

1. Schools are so much more than schools.
2. Many people now realize how tough it is to be a teacher and that teachers are grossly underpaid.
3. Teachers are irreplaceable and essential to learning and education.

And that was in March. 

We are facing a second wave in Vermont, and our teachers are still showing up. Every day. Because they believe in the power of education. Every day. For someone else's children. Every day. In the midst of a global health pandemic. Every day. I promise you, with trepidation in their hearts and their heads—every day. 

Find a teacher this week. Find a way to be genuine. Find a way to be sincere. Find a way to be heartfelt. 

And say thank you. And mean it with everything that you have as a human being. 

In This Case, It is About Us

On Friday, November 13, Governor Scott enacted more guidelines and restrictions to stem the tide of the COVID-19 virus that seems intent on making its way further and further into our state. One of the hardest things for me to hear was the immediate pause on youth sports. Our Boys were heartbroken when I shared the news with them. 

Their first question was, for how long? I didn't have an answer. Their next question was, does this mean we're going fully remote? No, not yet. That seemed to bring some relief. 

Let that sink in for a minute. My Boys want to go to school. Two teenage boys want to go to school. Is it for the academics? Maybe, but probably not. Is it for the relationships? Yes. Their friends are there. Their teachers are there. Their social-emotional world is there. 

In September, as we were getting ready to get back to in-person learning, we talked as a family about how different this school year was going to be. In the course of the conversation, one of Our Boys said, "I'm looking forward to seeing my teacher again. He's my G." 

I looked at him quizzically. "Your G?" I said. 

"Yes," he said. "My guy." 

As I thought back to my own 8th-grade experience, I can confidently say that I did not think that any of my teachers were "my guys." This stunned me. I am in awe of this relationship. It also makes me understand completely one reason why My Son wants to be in school and not be fully remote. 

So to all the adults in our state, this is now up to us. Our students and our children are doing their part. It's now up to us. According to statewide statistics, 71% of COVID-19 cases are linked to private parties or social gatherings. We need to make this work to keep our children in school and keep our statewide numbers from growing exponentially higher. 

Normally, I make our work about our students. We serve our students and their families through education. We make all our students feel safe, welcome and included. We create a place where our students can grow and thrive to the best of their abilities. 

But now, we need to do our part to slow the spread of this insidious virus. Some of these restrictions are harder than before. No more trusted pods of families. No more visits to others' homes. 

We are in a fragile place as a state. We still have an opportunity to contain our numbers and slow the spread. Our students, our own children, all of us want to get back to where we were, even just a week ago. We can do this if we put the collective good of our state first. 

There's no substitute for caring about our children. It is about our children. It's about other people's children. It's about the choices we make as adults. 

In this case, it is about us. 

Photo courtesy of the Vermont Department of Health

There is Hope

As I write this blog post, the outcome of the election is still in doubt. It's helpful for my mindset to share what is most on my mind and on my heart this week. That is this: there is hope. Not just in the outcome of the election. Not just in the democratic process. Not just in the relentless pursuit of dignity for every single human being in this country. 

There is hope for the future. Here's what I saw this week. 

I was invited by one of my teachers to read to the class on Election Day. It was a second grade class, so the teacher and I selected One Vote, Two Votes, I Vote, You Vote. Classroom visits are without a doubt one of the best parts of my job. I love being in classrooms and listening to children. They have so much wisdom, so much insight, and are the sources of so much inspiration. 

While reading the book, I would often stop and ask them questions. I wanted to hear from the students, and listen to their voices while I was reading. As I listened to them throughout the exchanges, I was awed by their knowledge of our voting rights. 

One young woman responded to a question with a question, "Did you know that not all black people were always able to vote in the United States?" Fortunately, we passed the 15th amendment to the Constitution to address that. 

The young man to my right pointed out that not every eighteen year old was always able to vote either. Without saying it explicitly, this seven-year-old was referencing the 26th amendment. 

Finally, another young lady offered that women were not always afforded the right to vote. She even pointed out and credited the 19th amendment for her future right to vote. 

Did I mention that all these children were in second grade? I don't remember much about my second grade experience, but I'm confident that I was not able to cite voting amendments to the United States Constitution. I am inspired by what I heard. I am inspired by what I saw. I am inspired. 

The other children that gave me hope this week live in my house. This week, every day, my own children inquired as to the status of the election. They sat with me while I watched MSNBC. They wondered if our ballots were counted (we mailed ours in). They asked serious questions about democracy. They mused aloud about the electoral college. They worried about how long it would take to count all the ballots. 

The bottom line is this, when I was in second grade, I don't think I was discussing the amendments to our Constitution. When I was in seventh and eighth grade, I know I walked past the television set in my childhood home when the news was on. I can state unequivocally, that I was not aware of the political process, other than nominally, when I was growing up. I knew about it. I could discuss the basics but I did not have this depth of knowledge, nor, perhaps more importantly, the level of care and thought that I've seen this week. 

So to Ms. Jette's second grade class, I thank you. To My Patrick, I thank you. To My Brendan, I thank you. You've all given me a greater gift than you can ever know. 

You've given me hope. 

Photo courtesy of www.etsy.com

Be The Joy

I am a devoted fan of the television show The West Wing. I watched it when I could when it was on network TV (remember where there was "appointment viewing") but really was able to enjoy it fully when it was in reruns on Bravo, and ultimately on Netflix. The show, created by Aaron Sorkin, ran from 1999 to 2006 and features a fictional Democratic administration trying to balance meeting the country's needs with the political realities. It earned twenty-six Emmys during that time, tying it with Hill Street Blues for the most ever for a drama series. 

I cannot specifically put my finger on what makes it so compelling to me. It's not a sappy, it-all-works-out-in-the-end kind of show. In fact, there are plenty of ways the administration struggles to keep its word, falls short on campaign promises, and fails to pass important fictional legislation that would make a difference in the lives of those who need it. And still, it stirs me emotionally, recommits me to public service, and inspires me to lead.  

The original cast recently reunited for a special called When We All Vote (currently airing on HBO Max for free through the end of 2020: https://www.hbomax.com/votebecause). I devoured it. I showed it to my family. It was a staged presentation of one of the episodes from season 3, called "Hartsfield's Landing," done to support and raise awareness for the non-profit, non-partisan organization When We All Vote. 

While I absolutely loved the show and seeing my heroes again, there were other moments that really caught my attention. During the breaks in the scenes of the actual show, public service announcements, with Michelle Obama, Samuel L. Jackson, and the actors themselves encouraged everyone to vote. Each, in their own way, expressed their perspective on the importance of voting. But there was also something else during what would have been network television commercial breaks. 

There were black and white scenes of the actors rehearsing, dancing, looking at each other's phones, elbow bumping (per COVID-19 protocols), and truly enjoying each other as people. But what was really compelling to me was they were laughing. Not just "ha-ha" laughter - full, belly laughter. Bent over at the waist laughter. Broad, wide smiles. Genuine joy. It brought tears to my eyes, watching it. It stirred me. I miss it. 

Because the world feels heavy. My world feels heavy. The pandemic looms over almost every decision we are making as a family. The pandemic looms over almost every decision we are making as a leadership team. The pandemic looms...

And yet we must go on. We take one step together. Or we stand still and hope someone stands next to us. One step at a time. One decision at a time. And in those moments, we have to find joy. 

The joy in running with My Wife, holding her hand on the walk home.

The joy in receiving an unsolicited gift from a child during a classroom visit. 

The joy in snuggling with My Children, every night, before they fall asleep. 

The joy in listening to a staff member unburden themselves in my office. 

The joy in FaceTiming with My Goddaughter.

The joy in watching a teacher's eyes sparkle over their mask while talking to a student. 

The joy in having coffee with My Friend. 

The joy in childhood, still evident in our building every day. Every single day. 

There is so much in our world that is uncertain. To that begin to push back at that, we have to find the joy. If we cannot find the joy, then we have to be the joy. 

I knew the world of The West Wing was fictional when I started watching it more than twenty years ago, and I still know it's fictional now. I know Martin Sheen is not the President, Allison Janney is not the Press Secretary, and that Bradley Whitford is not the Deputy Chief of Staff. While I know in my head it is a television show, the recent special confirmed what I also knew in my heart all along. 

The joy is real. 

Photo courtesy of www.quotemaster.org

It's Not Their Fault

I learned from one of my favorite principals that a good leader stands in front of their team when things go south and pushes everyone else in front when things are worth celebrating. I have tried to model that example in the various leadership roles I have served throughout my career. During these first 32 days with our students in St. Johnsbury, it's clear to me that I need to stand in front of my team. This is not their fault. 

We are one of the only, if not the only school in the Northeast Kingdom that is not yet offering fully in-person education. The Reopening Taskforce decided based on the guidelines from the Vermont Agency of Education and the Department of Health. I proudly stand in front of that decision. We have more than 600 students in our PK - 8 system and more than 180 adults. We cannot have a seat for every student to sit at that is at least six feet apart from others while they do their work. 

But the guidance has changed, you say. Indeed it has. We officially received it on Friday night. And our Reopening Taskforce has been expecting this. The new guidance says we need to have a seat for every student in grades PK - 6 to sit at and do their work, which is at least three feet apart from others. The Reopening Taskforce is taking the time to review this and measure our classrooms. We are also reviewing our procedures for screening, our lunch procedures, and our procedures for arrival and departure. In addition, we have open questions about staffing, furniture, and space. 

Will we have enough staff for more than 80% of our student body to return? Do we have enough furniture, and do we have the three feet we need to configure our furniture in a way that maintains public health but also feels like a classroom our students can learn and grow in? All these questions stem from one fact that in any other year than one with a global health pandemic, is a good thing. 

We have high enrollment. 

If you've never been to our building on Western Avenue when we all are in it, let me tell you, it's bustling. Hallways are full of voices, faces, and people. Big people, small people, and everyone in between. There is a certain joy to our school when the doors are open, and humans are streaming past you in every direction. But we can't do that, at least not now. 

The public health considerations impact a school of our size in a distinct way from others in our area. Also, very, very few families indicated a desire for fully remote learning in the early portion of our summer. That, combined with the fact that high-speed broadband internet is not a reality for every household in St. Johnsbury, led us to only have a fully virtual option for a small handful of families in a limited number of circumstances. 

I also want it to be clear that I believe it is in the absolute best interest of all children to be educated in person. Unfortunately, given the insidious nature of the COVID-19 virus, this does not outweigh the public health considerations. While currently in Vermont and the NEK, our numbers are good (if not excellent), we have seen an uptick in cases, not only in the NEK, but we've also seen the first case of school transmission of the virus in our state this past week. 

So while we are working to assess our ability to welcome back our PK - 6 students, we will do it thoughtfully and carefully, as we have made every decision to this point. I feel the pressure - I know the pressure. I expect my own children (both 7th and 8th graders) to be in a hybrid learning model for the remainder of this year. The guidance indicates that for 7th graders and up, six feet is the expected physical distancing. For our 7th and 8th grade families in St. Johnsbury, it is reasonable to expect that their students, too, will remain in a hybrid model. And as a dad, I know how hard this is. My teenage boys are aching to get back to school. Yes, my teenage boys. 

The other aspect I would be remiss if I did not mention is this, and I'm paraphrasing the words of Meg Allison, the President-Elect of the Vermont State Librarians' Association: "If there was ever a time to build a collective compassion for public educators, it is now." And yes, I understand, compassion is a two-way street. And yes, I understand that public education allows families to work, earn a living, pay the bills, and essentially exist. 

However, overnight, teachers became essential workers. And we are proud of that, and we own that. But do you know that I have teachers in my building who are crying because they are utterly overwhelmed? Not first-year teachers (not that it is OK for first-year teachers, or any teachers for that matter, to cry) but teachers who are established members of our school family. Teachers who are considered veterans who have taught generations of students and their parents. They wait until their children leave the classroom and then break down under the emotional weight of all this. I don't want anyone ever crying because they're overwhelmed with work. Never. 

I'm here to stand in front of every single employee in the St. Johnsbury School District. I'm proud to stand in front of every single employee in the St. Johnsbury School District. Every single day they show up for every single student, regardless of where that student is learning. 

So please, if you have concerns about our hybrid learning model, reach out to me. If you have concerns about the plan we have enacted, let me know. If you have concerns with how the St. Johnsbury School District is moving through this global health pandemic, don't complain to our teachers. 

It's not their fault. It's my fault. And I'm truly proud of that. 

Photo courtesy of @gmspirates

Truth With Compassion

If one is to be successful in any leadership role, managing relationships, particularly the difficult ones, is central to the work. It's easy to work with people who follow-through, meet deadlines, and do their job with obvious zeal and passion. However, as we all know, leadership is about having the hard conversations. 

One of my central tenets I try to lead with is the notion of "truth with compassion." Even when we are having conversations that will land hard on someone, I maintain there can be some semblance of empathy and kindness. Regardless of the work behavior being addressed, there is still a person listening who has feelings, a family, and a life outside of work. We can tell the truth about behaviors and job performance in a way that still honors the person. 

Growing up, I saw my dad cry often, and that let me know from a very early age that men are emotional despite the conventional wisdom. I'm comfortable crying, and I have found that parenthood from its very inception (I wept with joy when both Our Boys were born) often causes me to be more in touch with my feelings. This past week, I cried reading aloud the birthday card My Wife wrote to me. 

And yet, my sense is that still in 2020, there is this notion that crying, showing emotions, being compassionate, showing empathy... all these are signs of weakness. From the bombastic and toxic political rhetoric at the national level to the gendered roles that we tend to categorize toddlers into, there is still this sense that real men don't cry. For me, this could not be further from the truth. 

To be clear, I'm not saying that if we witness racist behavior, we must cower in the corner. I'm also not saying that we have to do it in a genteel way if we stand up for what we believe. Finally, I'm not saying that there are no circumstances that will cause us to raise our voices in anger and opposition. Anger is an emotion, after all. But it seems to be one of the only ones that are OK for men to demonstrate publicly. 

This week, I've been thinking a lot about authenticity when it comes to the work that I do. As our school district leader, I must be a positive figure, championing our work during this unusual time in our country's history. By nature, I'm a hopeful and positive person. And at the same time, I have to honor that this is an incredibly challenging time for everyone. The mental gymnastics that I have to do as a dad to ensure that my own children are where they are supposed to be when they are supposed to be there is exhausting. And I am a white man of privilege, with a more than capable partner who shoulders substantially more than her part of the load. 

What does this mean for the single, working parent? What does it mean for the families that are caring for aging parents? What does it mean for those who struggle with addiction? What does this mean for those whose skin color brings a level of implicit and explicit bias to every moment of their day? 

The bottom line is this: no one wears a sign around their neck, listing the areas in their life that are hard. If they did, relationships would be a whole lot easier. But since they don't, we need to lead from a place that is considerate of the reality that we just don't know what folks are going through. We need to talk about the behaviors, not the person. We need to acknowledge that some feedback is hard to hear and that we believe enough in the person to share the feedback. 

I've been comfortable with emotions and crying since I was a young man. I strive for empathy and compassion when working through the challenging conversations I have as an educational leader, whether or not we are living through a global health pandemic. It's not a sign of weakness. 

It's a sign of strength. 

Photo Courtesy of @KatelynLeitner1

A Bucket of Balls

On September 28, a tweet from Ethan Anderson went viral. News outlets, People Magazine, ESPN, even the Today Show picked up on it. Here's the tweet itself: 

The note in the tweet was what everyone, including me, found so compelling. It read: 

Free

Hope someone can use some of these baseballs in the batting cages. I found them cleaning out my garage. I pitched them to my son and grandson for countless rounds. My son is now 46, and my grandson is 23 y/o. I am 72, and what I won't give to pitch a couple of buckets to them. They have both moved away. If you are a father, cherish these times. You won't believe how quickly they will be gone. God bless. 

P.S. Give them a hug and tell them you love them every chance you get!

(I needed to pause while typing this post, as I really was starting to cry). 

Perhaps it's because I'm turning 46 this week. Perhaps it's because my own son has started to show a real interest in baseball again. Perhaps it's because I know there are fewer years with my own children in our home left before they go to college. Perhaps it's because this is simply and utterly a beautiful gesture, and we don't see too many of them these days. 

Parenthood is a funny thing - it challenges you and strengthens you. It is exhilarating and full of sorrow in a manner of moments. It can fill you with joy, and it can cause you to feel tremendous guilt. It causes you to look at the mini version of you - hoping to not make the same mistakes you endured as a child, knowing that instead, you will make your own as a parent (and that ultimately your own children will try to parent without repeating those). 

I was writing my dissertation when our children were little, very little. My Wife dutifully every night after dinner, directed me to the basement where I had my computer and my research. For those years, she parented our children during the day, and she parented them at night. She did this selflessly because I made a promise to both Patrick and Brendan, one they never knew or understood at the time. I promised that I would finish my dissertation so that they would never notice. Thanks to My Wife, they never knew I spent my evenings writing. That's because I never wanted to respond to one of their requests for my time with, "I'm sorry, Love, I can't. I have to write my dissertation." 

I've slipped since then. I've made excuses. Work. Pandemic. Cooking Dinner. You name it, I've said it. And I know, I know in my heart, the time is slipping through my fingers. Truth is, it's slipping through all of our fingers. We are less than three months from the end of 2020, and while it seems that this year will never end, I assure you it will. 2021 is right around the corner. 

It's not about the bucket of balls. It's about what the bucket of balls represents. It's about time. Time with My Boys. My Wife calls it "time in." Time in with our children is precious. It can be easily taken for granted. Things can get in the way. Work. Pandemic. Cooking Dinner. You name it. 

So with thanks to Ethan Anderson, I'm recommitting to My Boys and My Family. I'm recommitting to "time in." For Brendan, it's shooting in the driveway, talking statistics (which he has an uncanny way of learning and then dropping in a conversation at just the right time), and learning how to play Xbox. It's time in the fields for Patrick walking our dogs together, chatting in the car (he sits in the front seat now), and throwing in the backyard. 

(I paused to swallow hard again). 

We just need a bucket of balls. 

Photo courtesy of www.todaysparent.com

False Positive

One week ago, I got a phone call from one of my Principals. On my personal cell phone. On the weekend. Often those calls are not good news. This one wasn't. 

A member of our St. Johnsbury School community had a positive test for COVID-19. 

I will be honest, I expected this to happen this year, I didn't think it would happen in September. I thought we would have more time to prepare. 

Sunday afternoon quickly turned into a work afternoon and evening. 

In consultation with our local Health Department, we decided for all students to learn remotely on Monday. This decision was driven by the fact that the contact tracing would not be complete by the time our school day started on Monday. I sent out a message to our entire school community, letting them know the circumstances and assured them I would keep in touch as the situation evolved. 

A limited number of adults went to the building on Monday and we put our heads together about the next steps. The reality was that we could not make any more decisions until we heard back from the Health Department with the results of the contact tracing. I'm proud of the fact that we were able to furnish our medical professionals with contact logs promptly, and that our adults kept accurate track of those who had been in their rooms for more than fifteen minutes. 

On Monday afternoon, we learned from the Health Department that the positive test was limited to our 5th Grade Family, and they also confirmed they had completed their contact tracing phone calls. My message to the community that afternoon was that while our 5th Grade Family would continue to stay remote for at least the remainder of the week, everyone else was welcome to return to school on Tuesday. Also, I informed everyone that if they did not receive a phone call, they were not considered a close contact. In other words, no news was good news. 

We stayed in touch with the Health Department on Tuesday, but there were no updates. On Wednesday, though, we received the best news yet. The member of our school community who had tested positive went to a local hospital and retested, and the results were negative. The Health Department called our COVID Coordinator and confirmed that the test was negative. We did not have a member of our school community with COVID-19. 

How was that possible? 

The first test was an antigen test, also known as a rapid test. State guidelines recommend antigen testing only for people with symptoms. According to Seven Days VT, "Vermont is one of fifteen states that do not count positive results from antigen tests as confirmed COVID-19 cases." Instead, the state relies on polymerase chain reaction or PCR tests, which take longer to return results. 

Now, please understand. I'm not writing this to quibble with state guidelines. I am not writing this to question the work of the Health Department. As my own children remind me all the time, I'm not a real doctor, and I leave medical decisions to the medical professionals. 

Why am I writing this? I'm wondering aloud what the impact is of our seemingly overall need to have information instantly or rapidly, as the test is often called. I'm just as guilty as anyone else. I look to my Twitter feed for information because it's in my pocket, and I can get to it quickly. Banner headlines tell the stories of "Breaking News," which occasionally isn't verified and turns out is untrue. Far too often, we are deluged with notifications and red dots on our phone, demanding that we "check-in" and "connect." 

I've been asked if we would have done anything differently if the Health Department had informed us we had a "presumptive positive case," instead of a positive case. I can't answer that question myself. I am grateful to the School Board that I serve, as they delegated the decision making during this state of emergency to me. I am also incredibly fortunate to be surrounded by a team of professionals on the Reopening Taskforce that will help me find a way to answer that question. 

This team committed to physical distancing - we are in a hybrid model currently. This team committed to six feet apart. This team committed to modeling mask-wearing anytime we are in the building. This team committed to washing hands often, free-standing dispenser stations, and plenty of people to clean our building daily. All of this is in the guidance from the state, and you know what? It works. 

How do I know it works? Because no students were close contacts in this situation. Let me say that again. In our school building, with a hybrid model, with mask-wearing, washing hands, and daily cleaning, not one student was a close contact. 

Thank you to: 

Patrick Campbell
Lydia Cochrane
Louisa Driscoll, COVID Coordinator
Jodie Elliott
Sharma Gencarelle
Kara Lufkin
Jody Oliver
Jeremy Ross
Carolee Stuart

These are the members of the Reopening Taskforce. I'm proud to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with this team. That team, along with our wonderful faculty and staff, make education work daily during a global health pandemic. These are all the people that made this entire situation work. 

Even if it was a false positive. 

The Beauty in Ordinary Things

It is fair to say that we are living in extraordinary times. 

There is very little of our lives that feel normal, or at least the way they felt before March of 2020. We wear masks regularly, we cannot hug those outside of our "pod," and we have to be physically distant from others. Schools, it seems, are bearing the brunt of this, and it really seems antithetical to what education was designed to be. Case in point, I was speaking to a teacher recently who relayed a story to me about how, when walking with a young person to the bathroom, the young person extended their hand to hold hands for the walk. While the teacher wanted nothing more than to hold that young person's hand, for the sake of public health, the teacher gently replied, "I can't right now." And while it broke that teacher's heart to share that story, and it breaks my heart to retell that story, the teacher did the "right" thing. 

So what is one to do when living in times like this? How do we find our way when we cannot do the basics of relationships with those we see every day? I offer that we need to look to the ordinary and find the beauty in everyday things. And as a huge fan of the TV show The Office, I know how poignant this really is. 

As I've written plenty of times before, the best part of being a superintendent is visiting classrooms. I can interact with students, teachers, and learn along with them. I can sit and read, listen to what students are learning, and connect with the adults. Rarely, if ever, do I need to redirect students with more than a "Put your eyes on the learning," while I'm in the room. I genuinely have the best of all worlds, like the silly uncle who shows up for dinner, with no disciplinary responsibility to my nieces or nephews whatsoever. 

In the course of my time this year, I've already been received art from our St. J students. This first picture is from a kindergarten student who gave me the express instructions: "Show your friends and your family, but not your neighbors!" 

This picture below is from the daughter of a colleague who was in the office one afternoon this week. We've interacted a little before on Zoom, but this was our first time meeting each other in person. 

The simplicity of both gestures - or really any time a student gives me something - always lands on the softest part of my heart. I'm proud that I'm a known person to our school community, that I'm visible, and students know who I am. And while they don't truly understand what a superintendent does, as long as they know I care about their growth and learning, I am a happy camper. Their kindness in giving me their work never fails to genuinely touch me. 

My final example is this: 

Yes, that's a salad with my name on it. Perhaps I can give you some context. 

Before the pandemic, our cafeteria had a fresh salad bar that we could partake in, and I was happy to take advantage of it regularly. I even wrote about it in an earlier post What's On Your Tray? I've missed having this healthy option at work, especially since I will share that I've gained a few pounds since the emergency school dismissal in March. 

This week, our cafeteria announced they would make salads for those of us who were interested in having one by merely filling out a form and submitting it to the Food Service staff the day before. I was really excited to have this be a part of my day again but didn't truly recognize just how much until I went and picked up the salad above. I brought it back to our conference room and literally did a chair dance. So much so that the rest of my Leadership Team dubbed it "The Joy of a Salad." 

But a salad is so ordinary, you might say. It's nothing really; it's vegetables with meat and cheese. But in these extraordinary times, we need to find our moments of happiness in things that we perhaps take for granted. We need to find our way with others through smiling eyes if we cannot see the rest of their face. We need to savor the moments when our hearts sing, and we forget that we're living in extraordinary times. 

Like when students in your district give you pictures. Or the joy of a salad. 

We need to find the beauty in ordinary things. 

Photo courtesy of www.me.me (from The Office)

Wisdom from The Fonz

Growing up, one of the approved after school TV shows my family watched was Happy Days. Yes, it was appointment viewing, post-snack, before homework. For those of you who don't know this show, it was a sitcom that ran for eleven seasons, ostensibly about the Cunningham Family, and The Fonz (played by Henry Winkler) was the local bad boy who rode a motorcycle. Now, I do need to state that the trouble that Fonzie got into would pale in comparison to some of the situations we see on network sitcoms in the 21st Century!

Still, The Fonz was a household name and continues to act, winning an Emmy for Outstanding Supporting Actor in a Comedy Series for his role in Barry. He was on the NPR News Quiz "Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me," and while interviewed for the game "Not My Job," he talked about gratitude and tenacity. Here's how Winkler describes it: 

"Tenacity allows me to get where I want to go, and gratitude prevents me from being angry along the way."

Now, I will be honest, I didn't expect that kind of insight from someone who I knew for one sound growing up: 

And yet, the more I thought about it, we can all take so much from The Fonz, especially during this very unusual time. 

We need tenacity. We are living in, perhaps, the most polarized time in our history. Even our response to the pandemic is being judged by others to be political. To wear a mask or not wear a mask, despite the science, is essentially a referendum on who you are voting for in November. In education, there has always been a healthy tension between taking care of your own children and learning with other people's children. In the era of hybrid learning, that tension has grown to an incredibly challenging level. 

Education itself is more challenging than ever. We are in a place in our country's history when it's impossible to put all children in all buildings as we have done almost every year since public education began. Trust me, teaching was hard last year before the pandemic, and this public health crisis has amplified the issues of equity that plagued us in the first place. Teachers are heroes, they were tenacious last year before the emergency school dismissal, and they are even more tenacious now. 

We need gratitude. The collective level of anxiety we are feeling causes us to not be our best selves. We hear a rumor, we worry that it might be true, and we pass it along without thinking. We are judgmental of others while hoping others won't be judgmental of us. The insidious nature of this disease - the fact that asymptomatic people can transmit it - causes us to be more cynical of others, especially of others who are not approaching it with the same level of care as we do. 

This is causing us to miss moments, moments that remind us of our humanity. I was reminded of this while at bus dismissal last week. It's usually a hectic time, and this year even more so. I rushed one student to their bus when I saw another child (kindergarten, I think) starting to cry. For a moment, I thought this little one was lost too, but that wasn't the reason she was crying. This little one cried because she saw her older sister waiting for her in front of their bus. The little one broke free from the adult holding her hand, ran to her sister, and jumped into her arms. Their tears of joy were a beautiful moment I feel privileged to have witnessed. 

So Fonzie, the tenacity we've got. And we're working on the gratitude. 

Photo courtesy of www.tinybuddha.com

It Really is About the Students

It was like the anticipation of all my favorite holidays rolled into one. Along with the required amount of nervousness that comes with opening up a public place for more than 300+ students, with over 170 employees during a global health pandemic. That was how it felt as I went to sleep on Monday, September 7, of this past week. 

Our Reopening Taskforce had worked incredibly hard to follow the guidelines. Our Facilities staff had to not only prepare for the reality of the new cleaning and distancing measures but had to put our building back together after the bond work. Our Teachers were working to prepare lessons for both in-person and remote learning. 

As I drove to work that day, I thought about all of the students and staff returning to familiar buildings, with unfamiliar expectations: masks, physical distancing, and lots of handwashing. I also thought about the students who were coming to school for the very first time and the adults who were starting Day 1 in a new position at a new school.  I wondered and worried, anxious to get to the building to see what it looked like. 

When I arrived and entered the building, there was a strange calm. For one, we had half as many students as we usually did, but besides that, there was a vague sense of quiet. Not the kind of quiet that worries me as an educational leader, but more of a muted excitement. Children were walking in the hall, down the side opposite of me, following the markings on the floor, and spaced appropriately apart from each other. Their eyes were smiling. I started to relax a little. 

I started to visit classrooms, curious to see what it would be like. From Kindergarten through 8th grade, our students were there doing the work of childhood: learning with their classmates and teachers. There were blocks, beans, and base ten cubes. I saw fractions, formative assessments, and friendships. There was literacy, lunch, and love. I saw recess, rubrics, and above all, an emphasis on relationships. At the end of our first day, I took a short video of the last bus leaving our bus loop: 

I exhaled and started to reflect on what made Day 1 such a success. I was so worried about so many things going wrong. It felt like we had been working on this first day since we were thrust into the emergency school dismissal in March. It didn't take me long to realize what made this day so wonderful. It's what makes each and every Day 1 I've been a part of as a professional educator special for the past twenty-five years: it's the students. 

The last time I was a full-time classroom teacher was nineteen years ago. I was teaching first grade in Boston and was incredibly nervous. I had never taught a class that young before. The night before, while talking to the woman who would become My Wife, she gave me some wonderful advice that saw me through that first day: "Ricca, you know how to talk to kids. Go into that classroom, talk to them, and listen. The rest will come." 

My students made it better for me on that first day back in 2001, and they made it better for us this past week when they came through our doors on Tuesday & Wednesday. They will continue to make it better for all the educators around the world, trying to find our way through this upside-down educational environment. They will continue to make it better for us in Vermont, and right here in St. Johnsbury, with their smiling eyes. 

We know how to talk to kids. Go into those classrooms, talk to them, and listen. 

The rest will come. 

Photo/quote courtesy of www.quotehd.com

On Grace

There are so many thoughts swirling around in my head these days. Thoughts of masks, mandates, and inter-office mail delivery. I'm thinking about students, staff, and sanitizers. I worry about families, food, and first aid equipment. I'll be honest, it's a lot. 

We have worked so hard to be ready for our students to return to in-person learning since we last saw them in March. So much has happened since then in our world. So much is continuing to happen in our world. It feels like a lot. 

This week I was listening to a podcast by George Couros (@gcouros), and he related one of his favorite stories from Stephen Covey's book "The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People." In the book, Covey describes what he calls "a mini-paradigm shift" as he shared this experience on a New York City subway: 

Suddenly a man and his children entered the subway car. The children were so loud and rambunctious that instantly the whole climate changed. The man sat down next to me and closed his eyes, apparently oblivious to the situation. The children were yelling back and forth, throwing things, even grabbing people's papers. It was very disturbing. And yet, the man sitting next to me did nothing. 

It was difficult not to feel irritated. I could not believe that he could be so insensitive to let his children run wild like that and do nothing about it, taking no responsibility at all. It was easy to see that everyone else on the subway felt irritated too. So finally, with what I felt was unusual patience and restraint, I turned to him and said, "Sir, your children are really disturbing a lot of people. I wonder if you couldn't control them a little more? 

The man lifted his gaze as if to come to a consciousness of the situation for the first time and said softly, "Oh, you're right. I guess I should do something about it. We just came from the hospital where their mother died an hour ago. I don't know what to think, and I guess they don't know how to handle it either." 

And just in case you think moments like that happen only to people like Covey, a world-renowned speaker, and consultant, consider this moment from very early in my own teaching career. You know, the time when I knew everything there is to know about teaching, while only in my second year in the profession. 

I can still vividly remember it as if it happened yesterday. I was collecting homework in a very public way. Asking students to bring it to me at my desk while they were busy working on another assignment. This particular child came up empty-handed, a regular occurrence as I recall, and when I asked where the homework was, there was no answer. 

I then proceeded to publicly and loudly scold him for the fact that he didn't have his homework, stating aloud that he usually didn't have his homework and further wondering for everyone in the room to hear if he cared enough about his education to do his homework. Finally, I asked him, not in an inside voice, if he had a good reason for not doing his homework. To this day, I still get a pit in my stomach when I see his face as he delivered this answer to me: 

"My little brother ran away from home last night, and so we went out looking for him." 

Whether you're Stephen Covey on a New York City subway, a second-year teacher in Chicago, or someone just trying to put one foot in front of the other during a global health pandemic, I urge us all to give as much grace as we can. Give grace to each other and give grace to yourself. 

In twenty-five years as a professional educator, I've never taught anywhere but a classroom with students physically in front of me... until this summer. As an instructor at the University of Vermont, I taught a graduate course from my basement. And I will be honest, as I was delivering my lessons to my computer, I really struggled because I felt like I was giving my students less than my very best. I couldn't interact with my students as I was used to, there was no back and forth between students, and looking someone in the eye virtually is not even remotely close to doing it in person. I have a real sense of what our teachers are worried about. 

In fourteen-plus years as a dad, I've never had to worry about multiple days of the week when my own children would be home, besides the summer months. We have made checklists and schedules, tried out routines and scenarios, and still, there will be gaps. I have a real sense of what our families are worried about. 

As we start this new school year, my hope is that we can extend as much grace to others and to ourselves as we can. Faculty and staff are working as hard as they can - and there will still be things we miss. Families are working as hard as they can - and there will still be mistakes made. It's important that we offer each other the benefit of the doubt, as we rarely, if ever, know what others are going through. 

With so much going on that is beyond our control, the best we can offer each other, and ourselves, is the benefit of the doubt that the mistakes we make are well intended and won't happen again. 

That is the gift of grace. 

Photo courtesy of www.fpcnorfolk.org

It's Hard to Say Goodbye

Being a part of graduations is one of the best parts of my job as superintendent. Celebrating our students as they transition from one part of their education to the next is really a privilege. I felt the same way as the St. Johnsbury School graduation began this past Friday. 

It was a gorgeous June evening, with the sun shining down on us. With less than two weeks of preparation, the 8th Grade Team had organized a student-centered, physically distant ceremony. We began with brief remarks, and then the student awards were read aloud. The families of our graduates were assigned a parking spot, and with two strategically placed speakers, everyone was able to hear what was being said. Finally, each family was invited to drive their vehicle toward the parking loop. The graduate got out of the car, and their name was announced. There were horns, cowbells, and shouts of celebration. As the vehicles departed, they drove up our bus loop, which was lined with faculty and staff. By all accounts, it was a wonderful evening. 

I noticed that as each car left the parking loop, there were waves and goodbyes from everyone in the car, as well as the 8th Grade Team. It took me a minute to realize that this felt out of place, and when I did, I understood immediately what was different about this graduation (aside from the obvious). 

At every graduation I have attended, whether as a graduate or an attendee, immediately afterward, there was a gathering of some kind. Whether it was formal or informal, once the ceremony was over, there was a rush to connect with people. Sometimes it was family, sometimes it was friends, sometimes it was faculty members. There were hugs, there were pictures taken, sometimes, there were tears. 

It took me a minute to realize, I was witnessing what happened after the graduation, as each 8th grader drove away with their diploma. I hadn't expected that. 

Perhaps I should have been ready for it. Nothing has felt as it should these past months. Our movements have been limited. We are wearing masks to protect others. We've spent more time in front of screens than any medical expert would recommend. 

Perhaps I should have been ready for it when I almost jumped out of my shoes with excitement to see real people as I arrived at our building on Friday night. They were in front of me, not in a box on a screen. I had to resist the urge to get closer than six feet and offer a handshake or a hug. 

Perhaps I should have been ready for it since there wasn't a single person in the District Office. Each person at the graduation, outside of family units, was six feet apart. The graduation ceremony for the first time was outside. 

But I wasn't ready. 

As I reflected on this over the weekend, I realized that I am now. I'm ready. I'm ready to say goodbye to 2020. To the lack of physical presence, to the Zoom meetings, to the phone conferences. I'm ready to say goodbye to not seeing my friends regularly, to my children not playing sports, to not wondering how close six feet really is. 

And yet, I don't know what the future holds. What will we be saying goodbye to? What will we be holding on to until there's a vaccine? I'm honestly, not sure. 

I do know this. I hope our next graduation will have hugs, kisses, and tears, not just within family units. And OK, it can be outside. 

Photo courtesy of www.deviantart.com

To All White People, We Must Not Be Silent

George Floyd is dead. George Floyd is dead because a police officer knelt on Mr. Floyd's neck for more than seven minutes, while Mr. Floyd was handcuffed, despite Mr. Floyd saying "I can't breathe" and "I'm about to die." There is video of this tragic event. For me, it was powerful and sickening all at the same time. The reason I'm not including it anymore in this post is that I have a fabulous PLN in Vermont that helps me see blind spots. It was brought to my attention that while showing the video spreads awareness of the racism, it may be traumatic to Black Indigenous People of Color (BIPOC).  

Why were the police called in the first place? A shopkeeper called 911 to report that someone completed a transaction with counterfeit bills. Since the video above surfaced, several others have come to light that when pieced together, show the entirety of the interaction between Mr. Floyd and the police. There is nothing that this man did, nor was accused of that warranted being smothered to death. Nothing. 

George Floyd was murdered because of the color of his skin. Period. End of sentence. I know there are plenty of people that will disagree with me. I'm OK with that. I'm OK with you disagreeing because I know that racism is alive and well in our country. 

In 2018, when Montpelier High School's Racial Justice Alliance raised the first Black Lives Matter flag on a public high school campus, we received calls, some very menacing in nature, to our Leadership Team. Several threatened specific physical harm. A few told us we should raise a flag that says All Lives Matter, a familiar refrain I've heard as other schools in Vermont have also put this critical message on their campuses. 

Yes, all lives matter, and I agree with that. But that is not how we started our country. Our country was born of free and enslaved people. I'm not going to get into the semantics of the three-fifths compromise. I'm stating the facts. 

Article I, Section 2 of the United States Constitution stated (until 1865 and the 13th Amendment): "Representatives and direct taxes shall be apportioned among the several states which may be included within this Union, according to their respective numbers, which shall be determined by adding to the whole number of free persons, including those bound to service for a term of years, and excluding Indians not taxed, three fifths of all other persons." The "other persons" referenced in the original text were slaves. 

So yes, all lives DO matter. But all lives haven't mattered from the beginning. And this is one of the many reasons we are struggling with racism as a country and as a state. Fundamentally we began this great experiment in democracy with an unequal playing field, and it continues to this day. 

Consider these examples from our country in the past few months. 

• Christian Cooper was watching birds in Central Park. When he asked Amy Cooper (no relation) to leash her dog, per the rules for that area of the park, Ms. Cooper called the police and reported to Mr. Cooper while making the call, "I'm going to tell them there's an African-American man threatening my life." 
• Ahmed Aubrey was shot while jogging, after a confrontation with two men in February. The responding officers recorded the account of Gregory and Travis McMichael and let them go home. Wanda Cooper, Mr. Aubrey's mother, was told, her son had been involved in a burglary and was killed by the "homeowner." We now know a different account of that story and that the McMichaels have been charged in the death of Mr. Aubrey. 

Consider these examples from our state: 

• The moment that spurred the first Black Lives Matter flag flying at a high school came almost two years earlier. One of the African American students at Montpelier High School, Joelyn Mensah, asked two white students to stop using the "N" word, while Major Jackson was giving a presentation at the school. Not only did they refuse, but they also used that racial slur toward Ms. Mensah. 
• Kiah Morris, the second-ever female African American lawmaker in our legislature, resigned after four years of public service. In her own words, she "intentionally left for many reasons," one of which was the safety of her family after racial harassment in her hometown of Bennington. 

So how do we move forward? From a colleague in Vermont, Peter Langella, one thing we cannot due is to expect this work to be done by our students of color in this state: 

Instead, those of us who are white must use our privilege, our platform, and our power in all of our places. We need to speak to our neighbors and our allies, those who agree with us, and more importantly those who disagree with us. We cannot allow systemic racism to continue to invade our state, like an untreated cancer, to advance and conquer our idyllic cities and towns, taking hold in the minds of our young people. We must be both an advocate and an ally, reflect and realize our implicit biases, and work our tails off to address them in our day-to-day lives. 

I am mindful of the quote from Lilla Watson, an Australian aboriginal woman: "If you have come here to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us walk together." My liberation, as a white man, is bound up with the people of color in the state of Vermont. 

I will not be silent. 

Photo Courtesy of Sheldon L. Eakins, Ph.D., Leading Equity Center