By Mark

Two steps forward, one step back. Climbing a hill of sand. Sisyphus without the deceitfulness.

Or, January in my classroom.

For the three weeks prior to winter break, we all worked very hard in room 116. By the time the quiz rolled around, we'd practiced, reviewed, self-assessed, strategized, tried new approaches, and for the most part, achieved the goal. On my proficiency level scale for identification and analysis of figurative language, the data was finally–finally–showing not just growth, but mastery.

Interpreting abstract figurative language is difficult enough for grown ups, let alone for adolescents who struggle to even understand overtly stated concrete concepts. Add to that the fact that interpretation of figurative language hinges tremendously on a reader's prior schema and life experiences upon which to draw and adolescents are set up to struggle. Nonetheless, through practice, diverse examples, more practice, and trial and error, growth happened by December 20th.

And then it went away.

On one hand, I had documented assessment data to prove that my students had made progress and achieved my learning goals. If we look at the data from mid-November to mid-December, I'm "distinguished." 

On the other hand: The first two days of school in 2014, when we continued our study of poetry with the discovery that the "enduring understanding" I thought was taking root had been killed  by back a hard winter freeze.

But here's the deal: Because I am a professional, I understand the process of learning, and I know these kids, I know I don't need to worry. To a system that only cares about data and numbers, I could easily be labeled a failure from an inadequate string of data. The enduring understanding didn't stick.

We will rebuild, of course, because that's what education is about: building, breaking down, rebuilding… We know kids forget, misconstrue, get confused and sometimes erroneously shuffle new misunderstandings into the places where mastery once resided. It's a process, and it isn't linear.

And, when I sit and talk to my evaluator about this at my mid-year evaluation meeting next week, I'm not worried. I'm lucky that he realizes that no students–not even mine–experience a singularly linear and upward trajectory toward immutable mastery.

It is important that teachers be held accountable–the right way–for our students' growth. But to be meaningful this cannot just be a string of numbers. There must be conversation, context, knowledge of students and reflection on practice. There needs to be acknowledgement that reading "Lucinda Matlock" had an effect on the girl whose grandmother had just passed on, exploring "Golden Retrievals" didn't go well for the boy who just lost his dog, and "Abandoned Farmhouse" hit a raw nerve for the student who found himself homeless right before Christmas, since these also all factor into the data.

As we get more and more used to the idea of growth, we need to keep reminding ourselves, our evaluators, and our policymakers that this growth is not linear–and occurs within a complicated world.