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Dr. Lupini, Dr. Fischer-Mueller, members of the Brookline Education Foundation, Mrs. Katzman, current principal of Heath, and Dr. Sadowski, former principal, I am deeply honored to receive the Ernest E. Caverly Award, and to be the first recipient from Heath School. I would like to acknowledge and thank my colleagues, friends, and family who are here today, especially, my parents, Anne and Wesley Demont, my biggest fans, my nieces and nephews, the four most interesting young people I know, my two brothers, Ken and Andy, who still give me a hard time every chance they can, and my sister-in-law, Peggy, my greatest ally when facing my brothers’ taunts.
A while ago, Dr. Lupini, Skye Kramer, Milly Katzman, and John Miner, our guidance counselor, walked into my classroom, cross-armed and very stern-faced. In a moment of panic and dread, I realized that I had been discovered to be the fraud that I am. I knew that being hired by Brookline sixteen years ago had been a fluke and I was now being escorted out of my classroom. Fortunately, that was not the case and I have yet another opportunity to prove my worth in Brookline.
In talking with friends, however, I’ve found this “fraud-complex” is a deeply held secret among many who teach. Perhaps, it is due to the nature of the work: although there are some among us called “masters”, most of us simply practice; we look at student work; we apply strategies and techniques that have varying outcomes of success or failure and may otherwise be unremarkable; and we really do need critical friends because managing dilemmas is more effective when done with a trusted team of colleagues. Teaching is complicated and is further compounded by the unpredictability of the youngsters who sit in our classes each day. Yet, in spite of our private fear that we really might not be good enough, we hold a passion for this challenging, extraordinary art.
The weeks spent preparing for today’s event, gave me the opportunity to reflect on teaching. Much like we all do when delivering our Oscar speeches, I desired to be witty, profound and make original, brilliant points about education. During the prewriting phase, which persisted for weeks, I spoke with elegance and ease – especially at the peak hours between two and five a.m. My good friend and colleague, Tatiana Beckwith, asked me daily, “Have you written your speech, yet?” That was really helpful. Finally, I began writing down key ideas: open with acknowledgements, and, list of people to thank. I started fantasizing about having an accident or an illness - nothing life threatening, of course – but which would incapacitate me from being here today.
The truth is, I really just wanted to share a few of my favorite stories about children because the most significant memories I have about my years in the classroom are not about exceptional lessons I may have been fortunate enough to teach, nor, thankfully, those that failed miserably. Not hours spent in rigorous curriculum development, thoughtfully checking papers or constructing rubrics. Nor the hours spent collaborating and working among bright, inspiring, professionals in Brookline, and in particular at Heath. These accumulated hours are simply business as usual.
When thinking about my work, the powerful moments are those connected to learning the craft by simply being in the presence of youngsters. Over years of retelling, these individual stories grew into generalized ideas about instruction that have guided me for a quarter century.
One day early in my career, I had been observing a group of third grade girls jumping rope at recess; arguments were constantly interrupting their fun. I don’t remember more details other than I intervened and the situation improved. A few days later, however, one of the girls darted into my classroom, furtively handed me a small, neatly folded note, and then dashed out. The note read: I like you. You are fair.
I’m certain that child has no recollection of that moment, nor any idea of how she impacted me as a teacher, however, her simple, lasting message is a cornerstone for all educators: be fair.
For a few years in Brookline, I had the privilege to co-teach an integrated class with Shirley Suzuki. One day we were working on numeracy, the ability to understand and work with numbers; very important in first grade. We had set up stations around the room for students to explore even and odd numbers. They were to connect a prescribed number of Unifix Cubes then break them in half. If the two resulting towers were equal, the number was even; if one tower had one more cube than the other, the number was odd. After students recorded the data, we would share findings and create a definition of even and odd numbers. Students eagerly set off and quickly engaged in the exploration. I began “working the room”, helping individuals and asking probing questions. “So, do 12 cubes make two equal towers? What did you notice when you broke apart your tower of 17? Hmmmm… I see you have three towers there…” As I walked around the room, I became aware of a lively conversation between Charlton and Shereen. I listened more closely and heard them going back-and-forth: “Yeah, yeah. I know who you mean. Those two people that God made. Oh, what are their names? I know it. Yeah, I know it, too.” Suddenly Charlton exclaimed, “I know, its Even and Odd…”
Students’ comments and side conversations remind us that children often have their own agendas and frequently, it’s not embedded in the task we’ve set before them. In the classroom, teachers are consistently required to improvise when youngsters’ remarks show they are off task, and more critically, demonstrate misunderstandings, inadequate background knowledge, or mislead others’ thinking.
Coincidentally, this last story also begins with a six-year-old and a numeracy exploration. This time we were counting as one way to develop place value. I had gathered a large collection of interesting objects that didn’t roll: pennies, metal cubes, little plastic bears, things like that. Each group of objects was in a cup, and placed on tables in the room. Students were to go from cup to cup, record the name of the object and how many of each was in the cup, then go to another and repeat the steps. In all, I had about 23 different cups for the exploration, so I knew it was going to take a full math block. The students started their assignment and I had just begun to “work the floor” when Will came over and announced, “Ms. Demont, I’m done.” I looked up and said, “Wow, That’s great, Will. Show me what you have.” He held up his chart and he had written “paper clips…. 14”, the rest of the paper was blank. So I said, “You know, we still have more time. Why don’t you go to another cup and count some more. You can keeping working until I ring the bell.” He responded, “Okay. Which one should I do next?” I quickly scanned the room and said, “Well, how about the Unifix Cubes?” He looked me square in the eyes and said, “Where the hell are the Unifix Cubes?”
I’ve kept in touch with Will’s family. His sister, Rebecca, was also in my class some years ago, and his youngest sister, Caroline, is presently in my fifth grade. His parents, Lynda and Marty, are my neighbors, so I frequently bump into them and we have friendly chats. Not long ago, Will became a Marine and is currently on his first tour-of-duty in Baghdad. When Marty told me the news, the war suddenly became personal; Will is the only person I directly know who is serving. I was suddenly compelled to think differently about the war in many ways and each time I read or listen to reports about it, I think of Will and Lynda and Marty.
When you work in a community for a long time, you stay in touch with families and receive updates about former students. Even though children leave our classes each year, we remain concerned about them and hold a stake in their lives.
Teaching is an art that is challenging and, really, the best one can hope to achieve is a degree of skillfulness. Teaching is also deeply personal. Our moments with children are poignant, amusing, and sometimes, unsettling. If our identity as humans is determined in large part by the experiences we have, it seems fitting that when teachers talk about why they teach, love of learning is a common first response. As teachers, we always learn the most from youngsters and from certain, seemingly random events that accumulate and endure in our memories.
I sincerely thank you for this honor.
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