Leadership Statement
By Geoff Roehm
Two years ago, at the end of a long day, I fell hard into my chair, feeling tired and dispirited. It was late May and it was hot and the students in my 9th grade class had begun to wilt toward the end of the day, as the sun poured in our fifth floor windows and the heat began to rise. My bag of tricks was significantly depleted during my attempts to keep the kids engaged in the oppressive warmth, and it had left me worn out. The year was coming to an end, my fifth as a classroom teacher, and along with my end-of-the-day weariness, I was feeling unusually reflective. Many in education will say that it takes five years in the classroom to actually “get it.” Five years also seems to be a milestone that separates those that decide they will stay in education and those that make the decision to move on. I certainly wasn’t moving on from education, but I had been accepted to a Master’s program in School Leadership at Teacher’s College that was scheduled to begin in just a few weeks, so there was a looming possibility that I would move out of the classroom. As I sat in my chair, the room finally beginning to cool as the sun dropped below the abandoned buildings across the street, I thought about what kind of school leader I would be.
It was an exciting thought, but one that also made me feel uncomfortable. It was the end of five years of teaching, and I did actually feel like I was finally “getting it.” That is not meant to suggest I had mastered teaching. More than anything this feeling probably arises from one’s ability to feel comfortable with the uncertainty that can accompany any class on any given day; an acceptance of the unknown. That level of comfort allowed me to be more adaptable in the ever-changing public school landscape, which transferred to greater success for the kids in my classroom. I did not feel I was the best teacher. In fact, there were more talented teachers in my own department. But I could develop curriculum that engaged students; I could differentiate my instruction to meet the needs of different types of learners; I could meaningfully assess students both formally and informally and change course based on those assessments; I loved and respected the kids and in return they demonstrated respect toward one another and me in the classroom. In short, I felt good about being a teacher and could see students growing in my class. And it was no easy road to get to that point. As I sat at my desk reflecting, I could not help but wonder if I had the ability to find the same type of success as an administrator. Perhaps teaching was my niche. And why only spend a year or two more in the classroom if I was only just now “getting it?” Why not continue to grow as a teacher and make a positive impact on students in my class? After all, isn’t it the teachers, not the administrators that really make the difference in kid’s lives? Then I remembered why I had thought of leaving in the first place.
My school was shameful. I do not say this lightly. In fact, it hurts me even now to say it. The school was filled with bright and capable students. Almost all were poor and many came from unstable homes, but I can honestly tell you they were wonderful. There was not one time in six years that I did not feel this. The school was also filled with some wonderful teachers. Many of us had arrived together five years earlier, fearful and excited about what was to come (at least a dozen teachers were new in my first year, large teacher turnover being a terrible fact in many inner-city schools). We struggled and learned and grew together. We were all still there five years later, having relied upon and supported one another in ways that made us all unusually close. And yet, the school was not good for children. There were individual classes and teachers that were great for children, but it was less than half. More than anything, in my view and the view of many of my talented colleagues, the school was run very poorly. Administrators harassed and fought with teachers over petty and obscure points in the contract. Professional development was unheard of. School culture was poor. At the end of more and more days, I felt tired. It was the type of tired that worried me. On many previous days during my tenure as a classroom teacher I felt tired, but it was the kind of tired that accompanied being fulfilled. Even when it was difficult, I felt I was doing something good. But lately it was a different feeling. I felt drained and uninspired. I felt as though no matter what I saw kids doing in my own classroom or how much hope I had for my students, it wouldn’t be enough. And how could it be? The challenges they faced were enormous, and unless the entire school, maybe even the entire community, was committed to their success, it all seemed it would end in failure.
Feeling overwhelmed, I opened my bottom desk drawer, which despite my nearly weekly organizing, always seemed cluttered with unfinished work, and fished out a clean sheet of notebook paper. I selected a blue pen from the large bin that I kept on my desk for students. Despite all the challenges, what is it that kids would need to succeed? On the top of the page I wrote the words “Up, Out, Forward.” I looked at the words, feeling a little confused, but satisfied enough to go on. I skipped a few lines and wrote the first word again, and continued;
“Up – Iknow I cannot contribute to my community without tending to myself first. My own growth and development is important. I will always strive to learn, grow and be my best.”
I went on;
“Out – I am not an island unto myself. I must not just live in the world; I must be a part of the world. I know that happiness comes not from being selfish, but from helping others.”
An finally;
“Forward – I know that all things change. Things change in my life, my community and the world. I will not let change just happen. I will make it happen. I will move the world.”
I had written a student motto, and I had no idea why?
I read it a few times, and the more I did, the more I actually liked it. I don’t think I am necessarily a fan of “mottos” in general (things that people are expected to repeat in unison on a frequent basis don’t usually turn me on). But I suppose that wasn’t really the point. The point was that this is what I wanted for kids, why I wanted to teach, and it wasn’t happening. Not at the school where I was sitting. Not at a lot of schools in New York City. And so I decided: I would open a school and this is what we would do. I can’t imagine how naïve this must seem. Even two years later, with an authorized school that will open in 2012, it seems a little so. But I also feel it would be foolish to trivialize this moment. I have read this “motto” many times in the past two years, even as it has changed (it is now “Look In, Step Out, Move Forward” and can be found below our logo) and it is meaningful to me. In some ways, even more so now than it was then.
When I first wrote the words, I thought it was what I wanted for students. I do want this for them, very much so, but the more I have read it the more I think I wrote it for myself. At its heart, I think it expresses what I value in the world and who I want to be.
Much like the school I am trying to open, I am not there yet. And really, when will I ever be. But I hope I will keep returning to these words and I hope they will still carry meaning. More than anything, I hope my students will do the same. However, naïve their beginnings, the values contained in the motto, written on that hot a tired day, seem worthy. I hope I can prove them so.
It was an exciting thought, but one that also made me feel uncomfortable. It was the end of five years of teaching, and I did actually feel like I was finally “getting it.” That is not meant to suggest I had mastered teaching. More than anything this feeling probably arises from one’s ability to feel comfortable with the uncertainty that can accompany any class on any given day; an acceptance of the unknown. That level of comfort allowed me to be more adaptable in the ever-changing public school landscape, which transferred to greater success for the kids in my classroom. I did not feel I was the best teacher. In fact, there were more talented teachers in my own department. But I could develop curriculum that engaged students; I could differentiate my instruction to meet the needs of different types of learners; I could meaningfully assess students both formally and informally and change course based on those assessments; I loved and respected the kids and in return they demonstrated respect toward one another and me in the classroom. In short, I felt good about being a teacher and could see students growing in my class. And it was no easy road to get to that point. As I sat at my desk reflecting, I could not help but wonder if I had the ability to find the same type of success as an administrator. Perhaps teaching was my niche. And why only spend a year or two more in the classroom if I was only just now “getting it?” Why not continue to grow as a teacher and make a positive impact on students in my class? After all, isn’t it the teachers, not the administrators that really make the difference in kid’s lives? Then I remembered why I had thought of leaving in the first place.
My school was shameful. I do not say this lightly. In fact, it hurts me even now to say it. The school was filled with bright and capable students. Almost all were poor and many came from unstable homes, but I can honestly tell you they were wonderful. There was not one time in six years that I did not feel this. The school was also filled with some wonderful teachers. Many of us had arrived together five years earlier, fearful and excited about what was to come (at least a dozen teachers were new in my first year, large teacher turnover being a terrible fact in many inner-city schools). We struggled and learned and grew together. We were all still there five years later, having relied upon and supported one another in ways that made us all unusually close. And yet, the school was not good for children. There were individual classes and teachers that were great for children, but it was less than half. More than anything, in my view and the view of many of my talented colleagues, the school was run very poorly. Administrators harassed and fought with teachers over petty and obscure points in the contract. Professional development was unheard of. School culture was poor. At the end of more and more days, I felt tired. It was the type of tired that worried me. On many previous days during my tenure as a classroom teacher I felt tired, but it was the kind of tired that accompanied being fulfilled. Even when it was difficult, I felt I was doing something good. But lately it was a different feeling. I felt drained and uninspired. I felt as though no matter what I saw kids doing in my own classroom or how much hope I had for my students, it wouldn’t be enough. And how could it be? The challenges they faced were enormous, and unless the entire school, maybe even the entire community, was committed to their success, it all seemed it would end in failure.
Feeling overwhelmed, I opened my bottom desk drawer, which despite my nearly weekly organizing, always seemed cluttered with unfinished work, and fished out a clean sheet of notebook paper. I selected a blue pen from the large bin that I kept on my desk for students. Despite all the challenges, what is it that kids would need to succeed? On the top of the page I wrote the words “Up, Out, Forward.” I looked at the words, feeling a little confused, but satisfied enough to go on. I skipped a few lines and wrote the first word again, and continued;
“Up – Iknow I cannot contribute to my community without tending to myself first. My own growth and development is important. I will always strive to learn, grow and be my best.”
I went on;
“Out – I am not an island unto myself. I must not just live in the world; I must be a part of the world. I know that happiness comes not from being selfish, but from helping others.”
An finally;
“Forward – I know that all things change. Things change in my life, my community and the world. I will not let change just happen. I will make it happen. I will move the world.”
I had written a student motto, and I had no idea why?
I read it a few times, and the more I did, the more I actually liked it. I don’t think I am necessarily a fan of “mottos” in general (things that people are expected to repeat in unison on a frequent basis don’t usually turn me on). But I suppose that wasn’t really the point. The point was that this is what I wanted for kids, why I wanted to teach, and it wasn’t happening. Not at the school where I was sitting. Not at a lot of schools in New York City. And so I decided: I would open a school and this is what we would do. I can’t imagine how naïve this must seem. Even two years later, with an authorized school that will open in 2012, it seems a little so. But I also feel it would be foolish to trivialize this moment. I have read this “motto” many times in the past two years, even as it has changed (it is now “Look In, Step Out, Move Forward” and can be found below our logo) and it is meaningful to me. In some ways, even more so now than it was then.
When I first wrote the words, I thought it was what I wanted for students. I do want this for them, very much so, but the more I have read it the more I think I wrote it for myself. At its heart, I think it expresses what I value in the world and who I want to be.
Much like the school I am trying to open, I am not there yet. And really, when will I ever be. But I hope I will keep returning to these words and I hope they will still carry meaning. More than anything, I hope my students will do the same. However, naïve their beginnings, the values contained in the motto, written on that hot a tired day, seem worthy. I hope I can prove them so.