I Can't Delete Their Labels

As a family, we send Christmas cards every year. We use the same Excel spreadsheet used for our wedding, more than nineteen years ago. Over the years, many of the addresses have changed. and it's easy to update. Once the addresses are updated, we use the mail merge function in Word to create labels that go on the cards, with a stamp and they're off to our family and friends. 

While more than a few have changed addresses in the years that we've been married, sadly several have passed away. Unfortunately, as the years of our marriage have increased, so have the number of loved ones who are no longer with us. My maternal grandmother, my uncle, My Wife's great uncle, just to name a few. 

And I can't bring myself to delete their labels. I don't delete their information in the spreadsheet. I don't delete their names in the draft I review in Word. I let the full list go to the printer. I see their names and addresses, as familiar to me as my own. And while I don't actually put their labels on one of our cards, I can't delete them either. 

I wish I knew when it would be the last year I would use their labels. Unfortunately, we don't get that kind of foresight. I wish I knew when would be the last time I celebrated a birthday or a holiday with them. We don't get that either. I wish I knew the final opportunity to talk to them. Nope, not even close. 

I feel incredibly fortunate that I've only had a very small handful of experiences with someone close to me as they were dying. Given that it's a small sample size, please take what I share with a grain of salt. The lessons I took away were consistent, and they were all about family. Not one person said, "I wish I had spent more time in the office" or "I wish I would have worked harder." Every sentiment I heard was about spending more time with loved ones or regretting choices that took them away from their family. 

We're approaching the Winter Holiday Break in East Greenwich Public Schools, and candidly we are stumbling toward that final day. We've suffered heart-breaking losses and families that we know will be celebrating with one less person at their table this year than they expected. We're feeling the age of our high school building, while we prepare for a Master Plan that will breathe new life into our elementary schools AND will address some of the inadequacies at EGHS. 

I feel the sadness. I feel the frustrations. I feel the worry. 

Please know we've got this. We've already applied for emergency funding from RIDE to repair the heating system at the high school. We will meet the February 15 RIDE deadline for submitting our Stage II for the Master Plan. By doing so, we ensure that we remain eligible for the additional 20% reimbursement from the state and bring our total from 35% to 55%. Our Facilities Team will remain vigilant to the needs of all our buildings, including the high school, to make sure we do everything in our power to keep them open for teaching and learning. 

And, we will patiently meet the needs of our students and adults who are in pain and missing those who have passed away. Whether that is this week, next week, next month or in six months. Grief is not predictable and we will be here when those waves of emotion rise and fall. We will extend empathy, compassion and love to those who are grieving. 

We'll never delete their labels, their memories are safe with us. 

Photo courtesy of The Today Show

When It's Too Much

We've endured several deaths in the EGPS Family since the middle of November. The Zimmer family has a sibling at Cole. Dr. Michelle Casey, a special educator at Cole, lost her husband, Ryan. Our Director of Technology, Dr. Steven Arnoff, passed away the day after Thanksgiving. And last Friday, Bob Houghtaling died after a brief illness. 

That is a lot for a small, tight-knit community like East Greenwich to handle in less than a month's time. Even one person passing away would be a lot. This is four in less than four weeks. It feels like a lot, and I've only been a part of this community for eighteen months. 

I ache for the Zimmer family losing a child. I am stunned that Michelle Casey will raise her family without her husband. I miss my thought partner, Dr. Arnoff. We scrambled this weekend in the wake of Bob's death because he was who we would turn to in a moment like his passing. 

For me, it feels like too much. It's OK to say it feels like too much if it feels like too much. It's not an either-or situation. It's both-and. I saw this post by Jimmy Casas (@casas_jimmy), and it really resonated: 

Photo courtesy of Jimmy Casas

I wrote earlier this month about how we need to be especially kind to each other during this holiday season. While we know the four families that have lost loved ones are certainly hurting, we don't know who else is. There are no signs around our necks warning others that we're grieving or in pain. 

We don't have a diagram of the tapestry of ways that Owen Zimmer touched the hearts of those in his world. I can only imagine how many people are still feeling the reverberations of Ryan Casey's death, simply based on how many were in Our Lady of Mercy on Monday, November 27, at 10:00. Dr. Arnoff's thankless leadership ensured that our technology was ready when we were. Bob worked with a myriad of young people and their families, talking about things that, at times, were open secrets and topics that were known only to him and the young person he was working with. 

And we know that each death picks at the scab of the previous one we were healing from. 

East Greenwich is hurting. I think that's fair to say. Let's recommit to each other's humanity and recognize that for the foreseeable future, we need to be better to each other. We need to give the benefit of the doubt. We need to give each other grace. We need to find it in our hearts to be kind. 

If only that others will give it back to us. It is too much. 

One Week, Two Funerals, Three Days Without High School Classes

I drove back from Sharon Memorial Park last Thursday, November 30, lost in thought. Growing up just outside New York City, I've been to many Jewish rituals but never to a funeral. One of the mitzvahs in the ceremony happens during the burial. Each mourner has the opportunity to put three shovelfuls of dirt on top of the coffin after it has been lowered into the ground. The first is done with the shovel upside down. I asked a dear Jewish friend about that. She told me: "The shovel is held so that the back of the shovel faces upward to show that it's being used for a purpose that's the opposite of life. And that it also takes time, showing our reluctance to bury a loved one. This tradition of having family and friends fill the grave also ensures that the deceased is not buried by strangers." This is how we said goodbye to Dr. Steven Arnoff, Director of Technology in East Greenwich Public Schools. 

I could not stay lost in thought for long because my phone, previously on Do Not Disturb for the funeral, came alive with all the notifications from e-mail and text messages. Thursday was the second full day we could not have staff or students in the high school due to a leak in our boiler system, which meant there was not enough heat in the building. I drove straight to the high school to meet with the High School Principal, Dr. Patricia Page, and our Director of Facilities, Robert Wilmarth. There was some optimism in our conversation - the crew had been able to visualize and isolate the problem and was hopeful that we would feel the heat coming on and holding throughout the building in a few hours. We then walked every classroom space together, and I stood by as the high school leadership team made a plan for the rooms impacted by the ongoing repairs to be relocated elsewhere. Once that was in place, the safety evacuation plan was updated to reflect these new circumstances. Shortly before 5:00 that evening, Dr. Page sent a message sharing the good news with the high school community. Ninety minutes later, I sent a follow-up to our entire EGPS community and various media outlets. 

All of Wednesday was spent collaborating on alternative plans to accommodate almost 900 humans (students and adults) who spend their days at the high school, teaching and learning. We do not have approval for remote learning from the Rhode Island Department of Education. We chose not to apply for that collaboratively with our Teachers' Association after reviewing the requirements for remote learning. We know there is an emergency approval process should we face another circumstance like the one we saw at the high school. 

While we were planning for alternative ways to guarantee teaching and learning would continue somehow, Mr. Wilmarth and his team spent Tuesday afternoon, all of Wednesday, and most of the day on Thursday trying to find the source of the leak. Since I have zero expertise in this area, I stayed out of the way and only communicated with Mr. Wilmarth via text and phone calls. The last thing a professional needs is a neophyte interrupting the process. Until I was invited, all I offered Mr. Wilmarth and his team was space and resources. 

When I did get a chance to recap in person with Mr. Wilmarth and his team, after bringing me up to speed on the latest, he could not say enough about the collaboration between the Town of East Greenwich. He said, "Every time we called this week, the answer was 'Yes!' If they had a maybe, it turned into a yes, or it was an alternative to what we were asking for." I am so grateful for these concrete actions that supported and helped solve the problem at the high school. We could not have welcomed all the humans back to EGHS on Friday without their help. We are better together!

As I drove home on Friday afternoon, I thought about where my week started. It started in a pew at Our Lady of Mercy. Ryan Casey, the husband of Dr. Michelle Casey, a special educator at Cole Middle School, and the dad of Kathleen, William, Grace, Riley, and Caroline, passed away in November. I cannot comprehend the deep sense of loss that the Casey family, friends, and family must be feeling during this time. Still, something that Fr. Bernard Healey said during his homily stuck with me, and I reflected on it as I made my way back to my family. Fr. Healey mentioned that when we start a sentence with "if only," we're looking back. Even in death, there is hope, albeit challenging, in the Catholic faith of reuniting in everlasting life. Hope was a central theme during Dr. Arnoff's funeral as well. While there was not a lot of hope at the high school on Tuesday and Wednesday, we found it through the collective effort to restore heat to our building. 

I am not in any way comparing the hope of opening a high school after two days of no heat to the hope of reuniting with loved ones who have passed away. The depth of sadness that the Arnoff and the Casey families, as well as their friends and loved ones, feel is nothing compared to two days of no school for our high school staff and students. And, to not look back, in the words of Fr. Healey, we have to have hope. 

Education is an act of hope. The very nature of what we do is hopeful. We plant seeds that we may never, ever see blossom. Educators face countless moments every day, in every classroom, in which we interact in the lives of the learners in our buildings. In the lives of our colleagues. In the lives of the families of our learners. Every interaction is an act of hope. Hope for the future. Hope for better. Hope for growth. Hope for reconciliation. Hope for greater understanding. Hope for humanity. 

Last week was a long week. And I have hope that this one will be better. 

Photo courtesy of www.edutopia.org

I Was Late

Before the Thanksgiving holiday, I was on my way to one of our schools in East Greenwich and stopped by to grab a cup of coffee on the way. It was around 10:30 or so, well past what I would consider the "morning rush." As such, I was a little surprised to see a line of people waiting. In addition, I got stuck in my office and didn't leave as early as I wanted to. 

I like to leave a little bit of wiggle room when traveling. It's occasionally a conversation in our home. For example, when heading to the airport for a flight, I like to be at the airport at least two hours early. Honestly, it's not just because I don't want to miss my flight; it's because I'm an aviation geek. I have earned a private solo pilot's license, which means that I can fly by myself in a single-engine Cessna. My Wife would like to be the last person on the plane and have the flight attendants close the door behind her! Alas, we compromise...

Beyond that, I do not like to be late in general, so I do tend to overestimate how long it takes to get somewhere. A high school teacher often remarked, "Punctuality is the politeness of kings and queens." That has stayed with me into adulthood. 

Standing in line, I wondered if I needed an additional cup of coffee after all. While ruminating on that, I looked toward the cashier and saw that the reason for the line was that a new employee was in training. I can't imagine what the digital cash registers are like on the other side of the counter. I loved the old-school cash registers, where there was no math done for you. I'd compete with my siblings to see who could figure out the change due while standing in line at the grocery store. 

Back to my line. If I stayed, I would more than likely be late. I started to get out of the line but then thought about it again. I have been in education professionally since 1996. I want to support this individual in learning how to do their job. We have to practice what we preach, right? 

As I moved along the line, I could feel the tension rising in the people both in front of me and behind me. To be fair, like me, I'm confident they showed up expecting to be in and out, given the time of day. They were also doing some mental math to determine if staying in line would make them late and, based on their need for caffeine, whether staying was worth it or not. I finally got up to the front of the line and heard the familiar "Welcome to..., my name is...," but what I didn't expect was, "I'm in training. Please be patient with me." 

I placed my order, which, by the amount of support the new cashier needed, might have been a moderate level of difficulty. There were a couple of new screens my order introduced to the cashier. I tried my best to maintain eye contact and smiled throughout the order. Ultimately, after I paid (using my phone, so no actual exchange of money), I couldn't help myself and said, "I think you did a great job. I'm in education, and we all have to learn at some point." 

We are about to enter one of the cruelest times of the year for teaching and learning. The "in-between" of Thanksgiving and the December Holiday Recess. It is a time when it's not wise to introduce a substantial amount of new material and when all of us, from the young to the seasoned, feel the pressure of the holiday season. We will need patience, grace, and kindness to manage these four weeks in a way that ensures our own sanity and preserves others' humanity. Please give those gifts as generously as you can. 

I was late that day. I arrived at the school more than five minutes later than I wanted. As I scrambled from my car to the building, I saw other adults walking in quickly like me. When we reached the event, it had not even started. 

I was late, and since the event hadn't even started, it could not have mattered less. Let's leave some time for new cashiers, rookie drivers, and the other frazzled humans we encounter in December. 

We'll all be better people for it. 

Photo courtesy of @ChrisQuinn64

On Gratitude

I pride myself on being a grateful person. As a child, I was taught "please" and "thank you," and yet at some point in my human journey, it became much deeper than just being polite. I even sign my e-mail messages "gratefully." I cannot point to one specific incident in my life, I think it is an amalgamation of many little moments that have led me to a deep sense of gratitude. It is with that context and the reality that Thanksgiving is almost upon us that I write this week. 

I'm grateful for all of the employees of East Greenwich Public Schools. Every single one of them. From Food Services to Facilities. From Paraeducators to Principals. From Teachers to our Technology Staff. From Administrative Assistants to Administrators. Their efforts, many of which are largely unseen, bring the results and outcomes that our community is so proud of. Even when we don't, our folks show up again and again. Education is such a personal endeavor, and all of our employees bring their gifts, talents, love, and professionalism to our six schools. 

I'm grateful for our students and their families. It is a gift to be in the educational lives of the humans in this Town. It is a covenant of trust that is a sacred bond. 

I'm grateful for our School Committee and the values that they live in their work. All Means All is not just the name of our Strategic Plan. It is how these seven public servants ask me to lead East Greenwich Public Schools. 

I'm grateful for the Town Council and their commitment to education in East Greenwich. They took a risk in approving a high "not to exceed amount" for the bond for our Master Plan, and that courage allowed us to offer this community a project that will touch five of our six schools. As I've said many times, what's good for the schools in EG is good for the town. What's good for the town in EG is good for the schools. We work better together!

Finally, I'm grateful for the community support of our Master Plan. I'm proud of how the School Building Committee, together with the School Committee and Town Council, earned a vote of 69% on Tuesday, November 7. While we still have a great deal of work ahead of us, that kind of confidence from the voters is tremendous. 

Acknowledging that not all holidays are happy times for everyone, I hope everyone finds time to rest and recharge during the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. I am proud to be the Superintendent of Schools here. I remain incredibly grateful for the opportunity to serve in East Greenwich Public Schools. 

Photo courtesy of www.ifyourbodycouldtalkblog.com

How to Make a Difference

For the past few weeks, I've been thinking about and writing about grades and grading. It's been on my mind, and I use this space to think and then write out loud. Then, on Saturday, this photograph popped up in my Facebook Memories: 

Photo courtesy of Travis Jordan (@supt_jordan)

And I remembered why I got into teaching. 

I did so to make a difference in the lives of children. Never, not for one second, did I think that I would be a superintendent. A principal, maybe. But not a superintendent. At that time, I thought superintendents were too far removed from the classrooms, where the actual teaching and learning occurs. Where the real lightbulb moments happen. Where the critical relationships are formed, where students feel safe, welcomed, and included so they can learn to the best of their ability. Where they can feel brave enough to make mistakes, which is a part of our learning process. 

I loved the classroom. The last time I was a full-time teacher, I taught first grade. The reality is that when first graders show up on day one, they are simply kindergartners who leave for the summer. The joys and frustrations of helping six-year-olds navigate through first grade was something that I simply loved doing. 

There were so many critical moments that I got to be a part of in the lives of those first graders. Turn-taking, kindness, sharing, were all woven into threads of reading, math, and writing. The life lessons that we rely on today as adults were taught to us implicitly and explicitly in our years of formal and informal education. One of my favorite first-grade moments to explore was working through the notion of compassion and forgiveness, which is not an easy one for six-year-olds to master. And yet, those were the times I remember most from my time in room 608 at 250 Stuart Street in Boston. Face to face with two little ones, helping to see the other's perspective and to give some grace. 

As my educational journey evolved from the classroom into leadership, I found myself doing more with compassion and forgiveness for adults. While I was further away from the specifics of teaching and learning with a class full of students, I found myself working through similar moments in the lives of adults and hoping that they would then share that with the students in their own classrooms. I was no longer negotiating who belonged to a specific pencil, and instead, I was trying to offer compassion to grown-ups who may have been stuck in their own thinking. 

The truth is, I was still making a difference in the lives of children. By making a difference in the lives of the adults, who try daily to make a difference in the lives of children. We do that through grace, compassion, empathy, and love. While grades have their place and are important, we make a difference when we focus on relationships. And let that be our legacy. 

Learning From Others

In July of 1996, I stepped into the building at the corner of Washington Boulevard and Oakley Street in Chicago, IL. It would be my professional home for at least the next two years. Upon graduation from the College of the Holy Cross, I joined a volunteer program called Inner-City Teaching Corps (ICTC), which sadly no longer exists. The program was modeled after the Jesuit Volunteer Corps, which places recent college graduates into high-need professional roles in socio-economically challenging parts of the country. Two ways ICTC was different: 1) It was a two-year commitment, and 2) It was exclusively a teaching program. 

We were trained in July and August, with coursework from Loyola University Chicago, and student-taught alongside permanent teachers teaching summer school. It was definitely baptism by fire, and while first-year teachers rarely feel ready to start the school year, we all (there were eleven other volunteers in my house) felt unsettled as we approached the opening day in our own classrooms. 

Upstairs from me, there was a veteran teacher, John Minor, who was teaching seventh grade. We shook hands on the first day back for all teachers, and he offered something to me that changed the arc of my teaching career: "Come by anytime to observe me in my classroom. Copy me and make it your own." I joked with him about how copying is not allowed in schools. His response was, "Then make it your own." 

I will admit that in the first few months, I was so overwhelmed with my own work that my prep periods were simply a respite from the day. They were a chance for me to catch my breath. But after the new year, in the early part of 1997, since I was still struggling, I made the time to get into Mr. Minor's classroom to see how he ran his room. I wish I had gone in sooner. 

While I don't remember the specifics, I know I spent a great deal of time in the back, scribbling on a legal pad what I saw him do that worked in his classroom. When I got back to my room and my students, some of it worked, and some of it didn't. However, I took his advice and made it my own. It wasn't perfect, but I was not looking for perfect. I needed something different from what I was doing because what I was doing was not working. It wasn't working for me. It wasn't working for my students. 

Fortunately, as part of ICTC, we had professional development along the way, in addition to what was offered at our own buildings. We had people come to observe us and share feedback from ICTC in addition to our building principal's observations. There was a great deal of support offered for a position in education that, while surrounded by students, is often lonely and isolated from other adults. It's hard to get better when you don't see what "better" is. 

I am a far cry from that baby teacher from more than twenty-seven years ago. It is only because of teachers like John Minor who let me learn from him. There have been plenty of others who have shared wisdom, who have mentored, who have opened their classroom and office doors. I hope for this to be the norm for all levels of education, for teachers, and for students. Learning is a messy, clumsy process. Think about a toddler learning to walk. How many times does one fall down before mastering the balance and dexterity needed for that critical skill of life? That process is often characterized by tremendous support, family and friends, encouraging even the slightest improvement, the single first step by a baby. 

Why should learning in school be any different? Yes, I know assessments are different, as they should be. For the last two weeks, I've written about the importance of grades and second chances. The process of learning is one that does not stop once one has "graduated into the real world." The number of times in a week that I reach out to a colleague in EGPS, a colleague superintendent, a School Committee member, legal counsel, an EG Town Official, or an educator from another state marks the moments when I've come across something that I've not encountered before. That's because the work of education is done by humans, on behalf of younger humans, who will make mistakes throughout the process. We can learn from others how to manage and navigate these unchartered waters. 

A life lesson I first learned from John Minor. 

Photo courtesy of www.learnfromothers.skillsforcare.org.uk

On Second Chances

As a result of last week's post, I had many conversations about grading and zeroes. I'm genuinely humbled anytime something I've written sparks further reflection and dialogue. I was inspired to write further based on what I heard from others and talked about in the past few days. 

One of the questions people raised with me was the idea of the "real world" regarding grading and evaluation. Some of the feedback I got was that this kind of consideration (giving someone the numerical equivalent of a failing grade instead of a zero) is not consistent with what students will face when they graduate and have a real job. I humbly disagree. 

I don't remember how old I was when I learned to ride a bike; I remember the experience. My dad would run behind me on a side street behind my childhood home, and after a while, he would let go. Undoubtedly, I fell many, many times, but I got back up on my bike and tried again. My dad would reset his position behind me, firmly holding the seat, ask me to start pedaling, and ultimately let go so that I could learn the correct balance. Skinned knees, scraped knuckles, and bruised ego aside, I can ride a bike today. I repeated those exact steps with my two boys and passed that life lesson on to them. They both can ride a bike, and I hope they will use the same method with their children someday. 

Consider this as well: driving a car. I feel fortunate that I passed my driver's test on the first try. The lessons came from my Driver's Education Teacher, my parents, and being in cars with others. Some of my friends did not pass their driver's test the first time... but today, they are licensed drivers! How? When they failed their driver's test, they were given precise feedback about the parts of the test they did not do well on. One of my friends, who struggled with three-point turns, asked his parents to take him driving and literally spent hours practicing only three-point turns. He maintained all the other skills he was proficient in and perfected a three-point turn, passing his driver's test on the second try. 

My final example is something we can all relate to paying taxes. If you fail to pay your federal taxes, the Internal Revenue Service does not give you a zero and asks you to do better next time. The IRS gives you a six-month extension, including a financial penalty, and expects payment by October 15. 

The "real world" is full of second chances we experience as adults. I've had uncomfortable conversations with employers during my professional career when I've made a poor choice. The reality of any leader (educational or otherwise) is that having hard conversations with employees shows where the institution's values are. The situation is a rarity when a single incident ends someone's employment. 

My favorite musical is Les Miserables; I've seen it several times and know most of the words by heart. When cooking, I like to put on the 25th Anniversary Concert to keep me company. Those who know the story know that the protagonist, Jean Valjean's redemption, comes from the altruism and kindness of a Catholic Bishop, who lies on Valjean's behalf. 

Valjean had served nineteen years in prison for stealing bread to feed his family. Upon his release, his "yellow ticket of leave" shows his employer that he is a former convict, and thus, Valjean is paid less than the other workers. The bishop shows mercy and invites him in for a warm meal and a bed. Valjean repays him by stealing some silver in the middle of the night. When caught by the local police, they bring Valjean back to the bishop. 

The bishop realizes that the real injustice is the fact that Valjean lost nineteen years because he was trying to protect his family. The handful of silver Valjean was caught stealing could not come close to making a difference for the years he spent in prison. In fact, the bishop gave Valjean two additional candlesticks in front of the police that Valjean "forgot" when he left. This fictional second chance would be the transformation Valjean needed, and he would pass that gift on to others throughout the remainder of his life. 

Second chances allow us to pay it forward and make others' lives better, even in the real world. 

Photo courtesy of www.quotefancy.com

How Important Are Grades?

Occasionally, friends of mine bring me "educational questions" about their own children's experience of teaching and learning. Recently, I was asked what I thought about a kiddo being given a zero for a missing assignment. I followed up with several questions about the project, the teacher's grading system, and this zero's impact. This entire conversation brought me back to my own educational journey with grades, both as a student and as a teacher. 

Long ago, when I was in elementary school, grades were distributed by envelopes that we brought home to our parents as students. We would bring our report cards to my dad. He would pull the paper out and cover my grades with a different piece of paper. He was more focused on the effort column. In my home, any grade was acceptable as long as the effort was "E" for excellent or "S" for satisfactory. Once the effort grades were scanned, and after reviewing the comments written by my teachers, only then did he look at the grade I earned in that class. That has stayed with me to this day. 

As a first-year student at Holy Cross, I was overwhelmed with the workload. So much so that I earned a "C-" on my first blue book exam. I was crushed and sure that this meant I would not be successful as a student there. With my tail between my legs, I went to the office hours of Professor Jim Powers in the Department of History. He was an intimidating individual, and I barely knew what to ask. Fortunately, this was not his first rodeo, and he started the conversation by saying, "I'm thinking this is one of the lowest grades you've seen in your academic career." When I confirmed that indeed it was, he took out a legal pad and started to sketch out how he conceives of his exams, how it relates to the way he teaches the course, and finally, how it connects to the reading he assigns. 

I was grateful for all this and said as much. But when I stood to leave, I was stunned by what he said next: "Mr. Ricca, I will make a deal with you. If you ensure that all your grades for the remainder of this class are better than this first exam, I'll forget about this grade since it was your first college blue book." I continued to go to office hours with Dr. Powers regularly, kept all my remaining grades above that C-, and he kept his word. That C- was never factored into my final grade for that first semester. 

Despite the lessons from my dad and Dr. Powers, when I first started teaching, I was utterly ridiculous about grades. I harped on my students about them. I was thoughtless about calculating percentages. I recorded zeroes if students did not turn in assignments. If I could go back to my early years of teaching, I would tell that baby teacher to keep grades in perspective. They're not the be-all and end-all. They have their place, of course. 

Fortunately, I did evolve in my thinking as an educator. When I taught high school, I often asked my students what they thought I earned when I took this course on the first day of classes. A handful would offer "an A," one or two would suggest I failed it, and after a few minutes, every letter grade was mentioned. I would then lower my voice and say, "Do you really want to know my grade when I was in high school.?" After an affirmative answer, I would whisper, "OK, if you want to know what my grade was when I took this class..." and then, in a regular voice, say, "Ask my mom, who has all my report cards in a shoebox in the attic!" 

Finally, I reflect on the fact that I've been in educational leadership since 2003, and as a result, I've been hiring people for twenty years. In twenty years of hiring people, I've never, not once, looked at a transcript when trying to determine whether or not to hire someone. Other than verifying that the academic record is authentic, I've never looked further at the details. Even once, in another district, when we were hiring a teacher for Irish Literature, which is very specialized, I did not look to see what the final candidates earned in that class. 

So, back to my friend. I was honest and shared that giving a zero for a missing assignment was inappropriate. It's more appropriate to enter a failing grade instead because the impact of one zero is almost irrecoverable in the course of a semester, especially if you are being graded out of 100. Giving a numerical "fail" (perhaps a 60) is reasonable but not a zero. 

Fortunately for me, I serve in East Greenwich Public Schools, and our Vision of a Graduate aligns with my professional views on grading. Our graduates will be knowledgeable, skilled, connected, and reflective. It does not say our graduates will earn top grades. It does not say our graduates will have high GPAs. It does not say our graduates will have all As. 

When it comes to grades, they are only meaningful if they reflect what our students know. To that end, we must work diligently to ensure that our students, all our students, can show us what they have learned. Not just on a quiz or a test. Not just in a five-paragraph essay. Not just in any of the traditional means we have to assess. We have to work to make certain that our grades demonstrate the growth, learning, and content we hope our students have mastered. 

So I ask you, how important are grades? 

Photo courtesy of www.newsandviewsonline.wordpress.com

The Three Most Important Words

Our work is about relationships. 

That's it. That's the list. 

I try to live by these words. I am at my best as a person, a husband, a father, and as a superintendent when these words are in the forefront of my mind. But as a human, life happens, and there are many times when I am not at my best, and I forget these words. Let me tell you about one of these moments that happened recently. 

This past summer, I learned that someone in East Greenwich had contacted the Rhode Island Department of Education (RIDE) asking questions about residency. After a quick check of my inbox and e-mail folders, I realized that this person did not reach out to me or any EG team members with their questions. There were no specifics from RIDE about the circumstances, the family themselves, or the questions this individual had. 

One of the portions of the superintendency that I like the least is dealing with residency issues. We have a reputation for excellence in education, with a Strategic Plan entitled "All Means All," and I'm proud of the ways that we continue to improve and grow when it comes to teaching and learning. For all those reasons and more, I occasionally need to make a determination about whether or not a family is residing in East Greenwich, per the School Committee policy. 

As I tried to wrap my mind around all the unknowns of this situation, it made the most sense to reach out to the individual who had contacted RIDE. It felt like this person was going over my head, instead of coming to me directly with questions. I pride myself on being approachable, open, and accessible to the EG community. With this in mind, I called the individual who contacted RIDE. 

The conversation started off well enough. The individual brought me up to speed on the circumstances that necessitated them contacting RIDE. I had also done a fair amount of homework, figured out the family in question, and had some information about what was going on in their lives. I thought I had it figured out. And that's when our discussion started to take a negative turn. 

As it did, I forgot that our work is about relationships. As it did, I forgot that I pledged to stay curious, not judgemental. As it did, I just flat-out blew it. 

I heatedly explained that it felt like this person was going over my head by not coming directly to me. This person responded that they wanted to have all the information before them when they first approached me to see if what they were asking was even possible. I took a breath, slowed down, and listened to what this person was saying. It made sense. That's actually something I would do. 

We both paused. "I am sorry," I said. "I rushed to judgment. I can appreciate you wanted to get information ahead of time and then come to me." And with that, we were back on the right track. 

I shared my plan for how to handle the information I had, the information the individual had, and the reality of the family's situation. What I proposed was reasonable, and the individual assured me they would have the family reach out to me to confirm the next steps. I apologized again and asked if I could buy this person a cup of coffee when school started back up again this fall. 

This past week, we got that cup of coffee. I got a chance to learn more about this individual, look them in the eyes, shake their hands, and say, "I am sorry," in person. To their credit, this person was gracious and accepted my apology (again). I'm grateful they did and gave me the opportunity to make up for my mistake so we both could move on. 

All because of the three most important words. 

Photo Courtesy of www.greatergood.berkeley.edu

Beyond Differences

On Sunday, October 1, at Comerica Park, the baseball season will come to an end for the home team, the Detroit Tigers, and the visiting team, the Cleveland Guardians. It's an unremarkable season for both teams; both will finish with losing records, and neither will make the playoffs. For several people, this will be their last major league baseball game. In this case, I'm focusing on the manager of the Cleveland Guardians, Terry Francona. 

Francona himself had an unremarkable career in MLB as a player; he batted .274 with 16 home runs and 143 runs-batted-in while playing for five different teams over ten years throughout the 1980s. He returned to baseball in 1996, coaching for the Detroit Tigers, and perhaps is best known for being the manager for the Red Sox when they broke "The Curse" and won the World Series in 2004. He was also their manager for their win in 2007. As a die-hard New York Yankees fan, that particular run in 2004 was painful, as the Sox became the first team ever - EVER - to overcome a 3-0 series deficit by beating my New York Yankees in the American League Championship Series. 

Needless to say, I was aware of Francona's managerial talents but really grew to admire him after I heard an interview with Joe Torre. Torre was the manager of my Yankees during their run of the late 90s and was at the helm when the Sox defeated the Yankees in 2004. When Torre and the Yankees parted ways in 2007, he did an interview on ESPN. As part of the interview, Torre was asked about the Yankees/Red Sox rivalry and the 2004 playoffs. 

Torre was the consummate baseball professional, describing what it was like to make baseball history, albeit on the wrong side of it. He talked about how when the Yankees/Red Sox rivalry is at its best, that is good for baseball. But the Torre pivoted to his perspective on Francona, and he shared something I was unaware of. Torre said that outside of the games, when the Yankees played the Red Sox, Torre would often call Francona after the Yankees game was over and pick Francona's brain about Torre's managerial decisions. The two of them would replay situations from that evening's game and the decisions they made throughout. To say the least, I was a little skeptical. 

That skepticism was erased when Francona was interviewed a few months later about Torre's departure from the Yankees. They played the clip from Torre's interview, hoping that Francona would deny it. Not only did he not deny it, he leaned into it. The deep respect these two managers had for each other was palpable, despite the contention of the rivalry. Indeed they did reach out and connect after games, as long as they weren't playing each other. At one point, one of them mentioned they'd hug at home plate exchanging lineup cards, if they thought the fans would accept it. This validation from Francona led me to read his book. And I'm proud to admit, I loved it and my admiration for Francona grew even further!

These two men were the leaders of two teams that, to put it mildly, don't get along. There have been bench clearing brawls, bean balls, and a history of bad blood. Yet their mutual admiration allowed them to rise above their differences for the love of the game. If the managers of one of the most heated rivalries in all of professional sports can find mutual respect, we can too. 

More often than not, we are choosing to identify with the differences we see in others. More often than not, we are focusing on what others are doing, and judging that. More often than not, we are finding all the ways that others have flaws, rather than honoring and celebrating their strengths. This doesn't mean we can't have hard conversations about values that are integral to who we are, because those are important and critical to our humanity. But that's the key word, humanity. 

We don't have to identify with whom we voted for in the last election. We don't have to identify with our political party. We don't have to identify with polarized partisan politics. We can choose to identify with the humanity others. We can choose to see the value of those humans. We can choose to be decent (and dare I say kind) to others. 

Choose carefully and wisely. 

Photo Courtesy of The Deseret News

It's Not About the Game

Nine people every day. 

Nine people get the same graphic from me via text message at some point in the morning. 

A handful of people get to see actual letters that I played. 

I'm talking about Wordle. 

Per the New York Times, the game was created by Josh Wardle, a software engineer from Brooklyn, initially developed for him and his partner in 2021. As a play on his own last name, he called it Wordle and, to start only shared it with his partner, but then expanded to his family's WhatsApp group. He released it to the world on November 1 when ninety people played it. Statista said it went from the ninety the New York Times reported to around 300,000 in January of 2022 and gained over 2 million players a week later. 

I'm not here to tell you about the numbers around Wordle. I'm here to tell you that I love playing it. But I love sharing it with these nine people more. 

It's a way to make and maintain connections with friends and family. I share with My Wife, our oldest son, as well as my mother and step-father-in-law. I share with a dear friend who spoke at our wedding, one of our groomsmen, and a former coaching colleague. Finally, I have a text chain with two former colleagues from a school in Chicago where we met. 

Yes, we share our shaded Wordle results daily. I started sharing my results (taking a screenshot) with my former coaching colleague first. During one of our exchanges, he wrote, "Let's make this like fourth-grade math where we show our work." I need to point out that he's not a teacher because that is something an educator would say, and it made me laugh out loud. 

But this is so much more than a five-letter game where you have six chances to get it right. It's a way to maintain daily connections with people, some of whom don't live close and I don't see as often as I want to. It's led to laugh-out-loud moments (see above), ridiculous GIFs (when someone gets it in one or two tries), and words of consolation when you get the dreaded X/6. This means you did not get the Wordle in six tries, and your streak is broken. 

And yet, it's a place to share pictures of grandchildren, as one of my former colleagues from Chicago did when his daughter had her first baby. It's a way to check in with my mother-in-law in the days after she had to send their dog over the rainbow bridge. It's how I can needle a friend who is an Orioles fan, even though they're making the playoffs this year, and my beloved Yankees are battling the Red Sox for last place in the American League East. 

I can keep a daily connection with Our Son without being intrusive. I can get an update on a U6 soccer league in Los Angeles, California, from our friend whose son is playing for the first time. I can ask about how my stepfather's mom is doing while complaining about the validity of the Wordle word of the day. 

Yes, I can do all this through a text or a phone call. Often, I do follow up with a phone call to hear the voices of the people I play with. We make the time and the effort to see the out-of-state friends I play with whenever possible. Wordle makes our world smaller and closer while trying to keep our streaks and our friendships intact. 

It's a life lesson about relationships. They need to be nurtured, maintained, and cultivated. There's no recipe that guarantees success, but a daily check-in after playing a word game, sprinkled with updates, questions, love, and empathy, ensures that those on the other end of the text chain know they matter to me beyond the games we play. 

This is how I want our students to feel. I want them to know that they matter. They can come to East Greenwich Public Schools exactly the way they are. No conditions have to be met for us to be our best professional selves for our students. Our job is to ensure that every student feels safe, welcomed, and included when they come to school so they can learn and grow to the best of their abilities. It's not about their test scores, homework completion, athletic prowess, or extra-curricular participation. Our students matter when they walk through our doors. Period. 

Not surprisingly, my first word is always TEACH. So, when I share my shaded letters, people can get a glimpse of how I did and try to shape their guesses based on mine. I've had my streak broken twice in the past two months. It's always the words that have plenty of options, and I cannot guess the last letter correctly. 

My relationships with family and friends, though, are safely ensconced, thanks in part to our daily Wordle interactions. 

My Wordle for Monday, September 25

My statistics as of Monday, September 25

Age is But a Number

I am an extrovert. I draw energy and inspiration from being around others. Whether it is My Family, my colleagues, or strangers, I enjoy being around people. On an AAU weekend basketball weekend a couple of years ago, almost the entire team ate together. As you would expect, there was a table of adults and a table of young people. Both tables placed our orders, and we settled in to wait for our food to come to the table. Given the size of our party, I expected the wait to be considerable, and it was. 

What made the time go quickly, though, was that I asked the entire table to share what the first concert they attended was. It was so much fun to hear people's musical tastes, their experiences, and, almost to a person, the smile on their faces. For the record, mine was Billy Joel and Elton John, floor seats at Giants Stadium before it was renamed MetLife. 

As I retold this story this summer to some friends, My Wife and I realized that neither of our children had yet to go to a concert. When we were their ages (17 & 15), we had already been to our first concerts, so we kept our eyes open for possible options. As it turned out, given our AAU schedule this summer, dates and times were hard to line up. We even went as far as to see if we could see a concert while we were away at an AAU tournament. No dice. It seemed like we would go another summer without Our Boys attending their first concert. 

Until we saw that a friend of ours could not use their tickets to the Bruce Springsteen concert at Gillette Stadium. With a couple of clicks and a direct message later between My Wife and her friend, the tickets were ours! No one in our Family had seen "The Boss" in concert, and he did not disappoint. Three hours straight. No intermission. A curtain call or two. We did not sit down once. Oh, and Mr. Springsteen spent most of the evening with the biggest smile on his face: 

And did I mention that he's 73? 

It was an epic evening for Our Family. Not to be outdone, My Wife surprised me with tickets to Jackson Browne, just the two of us, at Tanglewood a week later. She bought the tickets for us as a summer send-off. He, too, did not disappoint, and one of my favorite lines from The Pretender is: "I'm gonna find myself a girl, who can show me what laughter means. And we'll fill in the missing colors in each other's paint-by-number dreams." It makes me think of My Wife every time. Every. Single. Time. 

In case you're wondering, Mr. Browne is 74, almost 75 (in October). 

When you're young, ages are things to be attained. At 16, you can drive a car. At 18, you can vote. At 21, you can drink. At 25 you can rent a car on your own. Then, at some point in your twenties (or thirties), depending on your mindset, the desire to age takes on a different perspective. As a culture, we tend to celebrate the decades. I had an epic 40th birthday surprise party and have been a part of several others for friends when they hit the "big fill-in-the-blank-0."

And I was in awe of these two men, in their mid-seventies, playing, singing, and dancing late into the night. Skeptics will point out that they are well-paid, don't need the money, and don't work full days. What I do know is that both of these men are passionate about their music. And regardless of how well they're paid, they would not do it if they both didn't love it. 

Their voices did not sound exactly like the music I first heard on the radio growing up and now dial up instantly on my phone. Clearly, they've aged, but based on the reactions of both crowds, it didn't matter. Their music caused us to buy the tickets in the first place and stand on our feet for a combined five and a half hours to listen, dance, and, in some cases, sing along. 

I don't plan on working when I'm their age, which is less than twenty-five years ahead in my future. I do plan on still doing things that I'm passionate about. Fortunately, I had people around me in my life who fueled and helped me create the time to do those things that mean a great deal to me. My Family still does this. 

It's essential that we give our students the chance to explore what they're passionate about. What blows their hair back. What makes them feel authentically themselves. Things they would do that don't feel like "work." I am very fortunate that serving as Superintendent of Schools rarely feels like "work" to me. But there will come a day when I want to do something other than this kind of work. And I'm hopeful that when that day comes, I can remember the lesson that Jackson Browne and Bruce Springsteen taught me this summer: 

That age is but a number. 

The Ricca Family singing Thunder Road.

Mrs. Fair

Growing up in the 80s, I went to elementary school right around the corner from my home in Mt. Vernon, NY. Pennington Grimes Elementary School was Kindergarten through sixth. There were three sections for each grade. There were also plenty of what we called "Specials" then, which are now called "Related Arts." Physical Education (we called it gym), Art, Music, and Computers (it was a lab with state-of-the-art TRS-80s) would rotate through our schedules. In some classes, there was one teacher for each special. In the case of art, there were two teachers, and with all due respect to the other teacher of art at PG while I was a student there, Mrs. Carole Fair was my favorite. 

It had nothing to do with the subject itself - to this day, I struggle with the concepts of art. I can do basic shapes, I can color in the lines, and paint-by-number was a childhood favorite. What I had a hard time doing back when I was a student was to make what I was doing look like the exemplar. Honestly, I have a hard time doing that today when it comes to art. But Mrs. Fair saw my brilliance every time. Every. Single. Time. 

It didn't matter if it was painting or colored pencils. Clay or caricature. Pottery or perspective. Mrs. Fair made me feel like an artist. Even if I didn't see it, and more often than not, I did not see it. Mrs. Fair found something that made me feel like my work, my efforts, my renderings were worthy of stellar, authentic praise. 

How do I know this? Because more than thirty-seven years later, I can still "feel" her impact on my life. In the past several years, that is due to the human and kind side of social media. She commented on every blog post I wrote, she would "love" and praise the posts about my own children when I bragged about them, and she found a way to tell me how proud she was of me. Yes, at almost forty-nine years old, it still lands when one of your favorite teachers tells you how proud she is of you. 

Mrs. Fair taught more than just art. She taught about relationships. She ensured that we were kind to others in her room, to the people, and to the work they were doing. She found ways to help us see our mistakes as masterpieces with a quiet suggestion whispered in our ears. To be clear, there were no mistakes in art in Mrs. Fair's room. There was never anything that we could do in her classroom that was "wrong" unless we treated someone else (or their work) poorly. Mrs. Fair taught us life lessons, in a room that was tucked in the back corner of the first floor, just to the left of the stage, in the auditorium. 

Sadly, Mrs. Fair passed away in August, leaving a legacy of mistake-free art students writing beautiful memories of her and no doubt attending her services in person. Her creativity and passion for art were only exceeded by her desire for us to be good people to each other and in the world. There is no doubt in my mind that one of the reasons I put relationships first is because I learned that lesson very early and very clearly from educators like Mrs. Fair at 20 Fairway Street, Mt. Vernon, NY. 

It was never about the art. It was about the people. A lesson Carole Carrozza Fair spent a lifetime teaching us, even after she left the classroom. 

Thank you, Mrs. Fair. 

Photo courtesy of Cristina Emilio Donnelly, PG Class of 1987 

All Means All

One of the aspects of East Greenwich Public Schools that I am proudest of is the power and simplicity of the title of our Strategic Plan, "All Means All." It attracted me to EG during the interview process and is something I've been able to refer to regularly in my first year. It's not just lip service, either. Our district has absolute clarity around these words regarding teaching and learning. Are we perfect? No - not even close. But these words mean something to all of our employees, who are responsible for creating an environment for all students to learn to their fullest potential. That means three things to me: All students must feel safe, welcomed, and included when they come to our buildings. 

If we do those things, our students will achieve what they are capable of, and they will be able to grow and improve from last year. One of the things that almost all students wonder about on the first day of school is, "Will my teacher like me?" To find out quickly that this is a non-issue opens up endless possibilities for our students, embracing them exactly the way they are as they come through our doors. It doesn't matter who they love, what their skin color is, what gender they identify as, how much money their parents' house cost, or what their grades were last year - all that matters is that they are here in front of us now, with a brand-new school year ahead of us. 

When students feel safe, welcomed, and included, they can be thoughtful about answering the questions that will come at them this year, most importantly, "Who are you?" If I think about that question, my first two answers have nothing to do with my job: I'm a husband to Michal and a father to Patrick and Brendan. Those come first. So, instead of asking our students the age-old question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" We need to ask our students instead, "Who are you?" and let that inform what paths to consider pursuing for possible future employment. 

Given the realities of our world, it is probable that this year's class of 2024 from East Greenwich High School will have multiple jobs across different fields in their lifetimes. Some of the jobs they may be applying for don't even exist today. Given that alone, the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" does not age well. 

In addition, we want our children to grow up to be people others can also feel safe around. We want our students to be the kind others turn to in need. We want them to take care of themselves, each other, and this place. The future of our planet depends on stewardship from this generation because we, as adults, have not done our part. Perhaps there is a budding environmentalist in one of our elementary schools, Cole, or the high school. We want to create the conditions for that passion to flourish, for those conversations to happen, and for that spark to be lit. 

Those conditions are cultivated, nurtured, and maintained by all of the employees of East Greenwich Public Schools. Not just the Teachers. Not just the Paraeducators. They do the bulk of the work. They're supported by our Administrative Support Staff, Facilities staff, those in Technology, the Leadership Team, and everyone in our District Office (Finance, Human Resources, and Student Support Services). We are all supported by the School Committee and Town Council. 

Collectively, it's our job to ensure that All Means All is not just the title of our Strategic Plan but the lived experiences of all our students PK - 12. To do that, all students must feel safe, welcomed, and included when they come to school. When we do that, we can ask our students who they really are and be inspired by their answers. 

Photo courtesy of @DrBradJohnson

301

On September 4, 2012, I wrote my very first blog post. I wanted to write regularly but needed to figure out how to start. I was in my second year as a superintendent, and for me, sometimes the blank page, with the blinking cursor patiently waiting, was the hardest part. I had (and still do) admired the internationally known educator George Couros for his weekly writing, which he continues to do to this day. 

Closer to home, around Vermont, where I served then, I looked to other superintendents on social media and wrote regularly. One of them, Ned Kirsch, had seemed really approachable, so I asked him how he made the time to write as often as he did. "Ricca," he said, "you just have to make it part of your routine. Once you get into a routine, it's done." 

As I look back on the dates in my blog, it took me three years to get into that routine. But now, it's a part of my professional world. Sometimes, the inspiration comes the day I'm writing. Sometimes I know what I will write a week ahead of time. Sometimes I'm moved to write about something I see in one of our schools. Sometimes, my personal life is the impetus for me to sit down at the computer. Sometimes I get stuck and look at that cursor for a long time. But I always write something. 

I've never met George Couros in person. We've corresponded through Twitter, and I once got a shout-out from him during a virtual professional development event during the COVID shutdown. I continue to follow his work and admire his values, personally and professionally. 

Ned Kirsch passed away suddenly in April 2019, and I never got the chance to thank him in person for his inspiration. His death was a loss for his family, school district, and the entire Vermont education community. I'm grateful for his simple encouragement, which made me start writing consistently in 2015. 

The ones who sustain me are the people I see every day professionally. The folks at the District Office in East Greenwich, the Leadership Team, the faculty, staff, and students of East Greenwich Public Schools. Their tireless commitment to "All Means All," while invisible to most, shows in the relationships the adults have with the young people in our district. 

Finally, My Family means everything to me. Not only are they the final editors of my writing, but they also share me with the people in my professional world. To them, I'm not a writer, I'm not an educator, I'm not a superintendent. I'm a husband and a dad. They share my failures and amplify my joys. 

Three hundred blog posts is something I'm proud of. Prouder still of the people who walked, and are still walking with me. My sincere and humble thanks. 

Photo courtesy of www.beckylennox.com

On Commencement

On Sunday, June 4, I was privileged to spend some time with the East Greenwich High School Class of 2023. These are my remarks:

In the fall of 1992, well before any of you were even a dream in the eyes of your families, I began my first year at the College of the Holy Cross, truly one of my favorite places in the world. That same year, Holy Cross started what was then called The First Year Program, now called Montserrat. The idea is that one of the first-year dorms would house all those in the program and, through an interdisciplinary approach in different classes, find answers to the following question: How, then, shall we live meaningfully in a world where there are so many claims to what is true and good?

You are all preparing to do something new in the fall, and whether it's college, a gap year, a job, the armed services, or something else, you will have to grapple with this question: How, then, shall you live meaningfully in a world where there are so many claims to what is true and good.

 

So, if you will indulge me for just a few minutes, I would like to offer two bite-sized pieces of advice to try to find your answer to that question. Because the answer to that question will be as individual as the 184 of you are.   1. Don’t shrink; and 2. Be kind or, at the very least, be decent.

 

The first piece of advice: Don’t Shrink. This comes from a passage written by Marianne Williamson in her book A Return to Love, which often gets attributed to the late Nelson Mandela because he used it in his inauguration address. But the words are from Williamson, and the line is this: Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do.

 

I want to take you back to the late 1980s, even longer before all of you were born – I was earning some money as a little league umpire, barely older than the kids who were playing and certainly the youngest umpire on the field. A lot of people wondered why I wasn’t playing baseball. The truth is, I wasn’t really that good. I mean, I loved the game (and I still do – and as a native New Yorker, I still root for my beloved Yankees). Despite my love of the game, I could not play at a high level. I made our JV team in high school, but that was it.

 

So to stay close to the game, someone suggested I start umpiring. I did. And that I was good at. Given my enthusiasm for it and that even back then, before the internet, let alone instant replay, people were not signing up to umpire, I was assigned many regular season games. As the regular season ended, I think out of a sense of generosity, the commissioner gave me one playoff game… at third base. I was so excited!

 

Now, let me tell you, as someone who has umpired little league and high school baseball for more than thirty years, each position has its own unique challenges. When you're behind the plate, there are tough borderline pitches. The first base has really close-force plays. The second base often has tricky tag plays. And at third base – well, at third base, you have to be sure not to fall asleep out of sheer boredom.

 

For the first few innings, I followed each and every pitch, and even though there were no calls at third base, I was ready for anything. By the third inning, my attention was waning, and in the fourth inning, I was looking around and not at the game, and by the fifth inning, I was just not focused. Little league games are only six innings, so it was getting close to the end when the telltale ping of an aluminum bat jolted me back to reality, and as I looked up, a white object went hurling past me down the third baseline. I had no clue if it was fair or foul, so I guessed and pointed fair… There were no arguments; no one said anything; it was like I was invisible. Which, by the way, is precisely how any official of any sport wants to be: invisible.

 

At the end of the game, the home plate umpire came up to me and said, Great call on that screamer down the line; I said thank you quickly. He then said, you have missed it, right? You were asleep, right? Yes…

 

But that night, I shone… And I still continue to umpire to this day.

 

My last piece of advice is: Be kind, or at least be decent. In whatever you do, wherever you go, whoever you meet. Be one inch kinder, one inch more decent.

 

Be kind or decent – simple in concept but seemingly and somehow terribly tricky in our world today. 

 

Consider the following: During a marathon in 2021, a Kenyan runner Abel Mutai was a few meters from the finish line but got confused by the signals and stopped, thinking he had completed the race. Another runner from Spain, Ivan Fernandez, was right behind him and, realizing what had happened in front of him, shouted to the Kenyan runner to keep going.

 

As you might surmise, the Kenyan didn’t understand Spanish. So Fernandez pushed Mutai to victory.

 

After the race, a reporter asked Fernandez, "Why did you do this?"

Evan replied, "My dream is that one day we can have the kind of community life that pushes ourselves and others to win as well."

 “But why did you let the Kenyan win?” the reporter insisted. 

Evan replied, “I didn’t let him win; he would win. It was his race.” 

The reporter pressed and asked again: “But you could have won!”

Evan looked at him and replied, “But what is the merit of my victory? What is the honor of this medal? What will my mother think?”

 

Mr. Fernandez had a point.

 

You are graduating at a time in our world that is one of the most polarizing, as far as I can remember. The political climate, nationally and locally, is one where we respond first, sometimes with violence, and ask questions later. You are in the midst of a tumultuous, ever-changing world, and we are sending you off into it. When faced with this challenge, I humbly recommend that you do one thing: be kind or, at the very least, be decent. 

 

You heard from Town Manager Andrew Nota on Friday at Ivy Day that public service demands compassion, empathy, and listening. The deep kind of listening; listening to understand, not listening to reply or respond. All those qualities live in kindness and decency.

 

That is not to say that I expect you to lay down in the face of something that you do not value – I expect you to stand up for what you believe is right. I expect that you will be an advocate and an ally for those who are being marginalized and who are on the fringes of our culture. And you can be kind simultaneously – they're not mutually exclusive. 

 

And let’s be honest – you already know how to be kind and decent; you all know how to shine; you are a graduating class of East Greenwich Public Schools. I have seen you all shine in a variety of ways while you showed us your talents – on stage and off, in the classroom, athletically, and through fine arts; I’ve been awed by your Senior Projects, I’ve been proud of your athletic accomplishments, and marveled while you earned academic awards. You already know how to be kind and decent, and you already know how to shine.

 

You've baked cookies for friends in need; you stop in and see your teachers regularly, preserving these critical relationships; you use your artistic talents to make cards for people who are down or for teammates; there are members of this class who have been leaders in our school, our town, and our state.

 

Look around our world, locally, nationally, and internationally. We need you! We need kindness. We need decency. And as someone who loves data, I am proud to tell you that there is research out there to validate this. Social and emotional skills, including kindness and decency, can be taught and learned, and there are direct benefits from the lessons. According to a 2011 review of 213 programs designed to teach children of all ages social and emotional skills in school, those who took part in the initiatives improved their outlook and behavior toward others. They also had better academic performance and showed enhanced social-emotional awareness.

 

You, the class of 2023, have been an example to us of shine and how to be kind, and while you’ve had your ups and downs, EG is a better school community, and EG is a better town because of your example. You have taught us well, and we are grateful to you for that.

 

So, based on the fact that you have completed all the requirements set forth by the State of Rhode Island and the East Greenwich Public Schools School Committee, you earn a diploma and will leave this arena not as students but as alumni of East Greenwich High School. We wish you well in how you choose to celebrate your life.

 

On behalf of our School Committee, the faculty & staff of Frenchtown, Meadowbrook Farms, Eldredge, Hanaford, Cole Middle School, and, of course, those in this room from East Greenwich High School, I congratulate you for this accomplishment and, I genuinely look forward to seeing how you will answer this question: How do you live meaningfully in a world where there are so many claims to what is true and good?