"Mr. Goodner, a teacher needs you in the classroom." There I was, having a great conversation about the role homework plays in learning when my radio interrupted again. Severing myself from the conversation, I asked for the room number and plodded upstairs.
Turning the corner into the 7th grade hallway, I saw him sitting in the hallway … again. This time he had "just" been standing up (absolutely certain that he wasn't blocking anyone's view) while the teacher was trying to display a video. When asked to sit back down, he refused and proceeded into the hallway.
This was actually a step up for this particular young man. At least now he was following his behavior plan. The teacher came into the hallway, and the three of us discussed the situation. At the heart of the issue: communication. Turns out, the student was blocking others' view and also truly needed to stand up to meet his emotional needs of the day. Instead of arriving at resolution, the young man was missing instruction.
As my school's assistant principal, I've been thinking a lot lately about what educators can do differently in situations where students are unable to learn because their emotional needs are not met and teachers are unable to meet these emotional needs because they don't know they exist. Teachers are generally the type of people who genuinely care about their students' emotional well-being. So why is it often such a mystery?
Part of the problem is our need to master our own stories (Patterson et al, 2011). When we don't hear or seek out other perspectives, our minds tend to fill in the blanks. We have a fundamental (but controllable) need to finish the story. With self-awareness and regulation, we can open ourselves up to gather all the facts and use effective communication to nurture relationships at the conversational level before confrontation is necessary (Patterson et al, 2011).
Yet even though I know about these effective communication processes, I also know my own communication has been lacking. Then, I had an epiphany while reflecting on Franklin D. Roosevelt's famous claim from his first inaugural address (1933) that the "only thing we have to fear is fear itself." Fear is the first obstacle of communication. It lurks in the depths of our brain stems and is almost impossible to express. With this in mind, I have become intentional about addressing others' fears up front. The effect has been dramatic. My evidence is purely anecdotal and firsthand only, but I offer these insights for consideration.
As an assistant principal, it is often left to me to communicate with parents about discipline issues. (I am certain I'm not the only one who has stared at the telephone on my desk, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass.) Before making the call, I try to think what fears might emerge for the person on the other end of the line. The better I know a particular family, the more specific I can be. Fears include thoughts like, The school doesn't like my kid, they think I'm a bad parent, and I work two jobs; I don't know what they expect me to do about it.
I quickly draft a script for starting the conversation, ensuring that I will address identified fears as the family member and I talk. Since I began this practice of scripting, I haven't experienced a single conversation that was as bad as I feared. The parents (yes, even "those" parents) are usually able to truly hear that I want to assist them in realizing their family goals, am more interested in teaching appropriate behavior than doling out punishments, and am seeking their expertise in devising a plan (and not expecting them to correct the behavior on their own). I still have parents with whom I can't quite see eye-to-eye, but not many.
My true joy of my professional life is instructional leadership. I have begun to approach these conversations in the same vein. What fears must I address up front when working with teachers? Could the teachers I help harbor fears such as, I'm already drained, what more can I possibly do? What will the other teachers think of me? Is it really my fault a kid acts up? Does he think I'm a good teacher? Do I think I'm a good teacher?
I scripted to address fears in an early PLC meeting with a couple of my science teachers. By speaking to fears at the beginning of our conversation, I created space for teachers to reflect on and voice their fears. (I didn't even get to work through my entire script!) I have never witnessed instructional growth as rapid as these teachers have both displayed this year. They are energized and their students are happily engaged—and district assessment data shows it.
This strategy can be useful when teachers work with students, as well. I shared this idea with a few of the teachers I serve, and they report that it works well when introducing a new project or lab activity. Teachers frontload their introductions to address student fears such as, I don't know exactly what you want me to do or I'm afraid of looking stupid or foolish. These teachers are eager to employ the strategy next year, on the first day of school, as they collaborate with students to establish classroom norms and expectations.
The scripts I use aren't etched in stone. I simply jot down talking points. I enjoy the flexibility to allow conversations to develop organically. Whether you use your script verbatim or simply to guide a difficult conversation, the benefit is in making the conscious effort to consider the task (or issue) from another's viewpoint.
The human brain has an amazing capacity for learning, but fear can keep us locked in our "lizard brain" with limited fight-or-flight responses to challenging situations. I've decided to target fear as the enemy to learning in my school. Instead of trying to avoid the fear that can derail communication, we must bring it out of hiding and give it careful consideration. Acknowledging the fears that block communication, and ultimately relationships, in my school has helped me better understand and serve the emotional needs that drive learning.
