By Mark

One day my oldest son, at the time a kindergartner, came home distraught.

Eventually, my wife and I were able to coax out the whole story. He said he'd done everything he was supposed to do: day after day he was doing his work in class, helping others, being a good citizen, and everything else his teacher asked. He'd been a great line leader, a great tablemate, and almost always raised his hand before speaking.

Sobbing, he couldn't understand why the teacher just wouldn't ever change his card to orange.

For those of you not in elementary school, his teacher employed a "stoplight" kind of behavior management: if there is a green card in your name envelope, all's well. Yellow means you screwed up, take advantage of the opportunity to correct your own behavior. Red means a call home from the teacher. But orange: orange is the pinnacle. It is the sign that you've done exceptionally well. You've worked diligently on your class work, you've helped others, you've been a good citizen, and you've done everything else your teacher has asked.

Ian's card got changed to orange today, he explained, but Ian kicked Sophie yesterday and his card went to red. And yesterday Eric's card was orange but the day before that he had been on red and the principal had to come get him. It was by this point half-way through the school year and my son had been on green every day except one (a day when he was knocked to yellow for talking in the bus line–another day we dealt with effusive tears). 

I tried to explain to him classroom management philosophy about rewarding the behavior you want to see continue–that's why Ian and Eric were rewarded just the day after an egregious offense and a red card each. But, he said, isn't my behavior what Mrs. F. wants to see every day?

Touche. But there's more to it.

I have never been a fan of the everyone-gets-a-trophy we're-all-winners mentality that seems to pervade activities that young people are involved in–including school. I've learned a whole lot more from my own (agonizing) failures than from cruising along getting medals for showing up. Not succeeding hurts. It hurts bad. It is supposed to–the theory is that if we are motivated (if) then we will work harder to avoid that same devastating feeling once again. For the last couple of decades or more, it seems like schools, teams, and parents have all sought to protect children from that devastating feeling out of fear that it might derail their lives irreparably (because let's be honest, failure can do just that). On the flip side, every little thing gets rewarded out of the false hope that these rewards will propel the rewardee toward continued effort. 

All this echoed back into my mind when reading a recent Washington Post on-line article: "In schools, self-esteem boosting is losing favor to rigor, fine tuned praise." As a parent and as a teacher I agree with the eschewing of hollow praise in favor of specific formative feedback toward a rigorous goal. No more certificates of participation. No more class credit for showing up. Not everyone can get the highest grade; not everyone can be valedictorian. (And this is how it should be–we're not all exceptional because for there to be an exception there must exist an observable difference.) The article identifies that years of attempting to instill confidence in students–protecting them from the pains of failure by inflating their self-esteem–resulted in no gains in academic achievement. 

Now, what does this have to do with my crying kindergartner? Wait, I'll bring it back.

I actually like that my son's efforts were going un-recognized.

He was doing what he was supposed to be doing. He shouldn't get into the habit of expecting a reward for that. His tears were more about not getting the recognition he felt entitled to (and, as we dug deeper, my wife and I discovered that getting an orange card also meant getting to pick a cheap little plastic toy from the "treasure chest," and this is what it turned out my son was most upset about not getting the chance to do…and when he did finally get his card changed to orange a few weeks later he picked out of the treasure chest a giant pipe cleaner. Seriously, kid, a pipe cleaner?).

As we talked it out in the best six-year-old-friendly terms that my advanced-degree-holding wife and I could muster, I think we were able to get my son to understand that he still needed to keep up his good behavior. He may not have understood totally what it meant to not feel entitled to praise for doing what he was supposed to be doing, but at least he was calmed and didn't poke at the flaws in our argument only answerable with vocabulary beyond kindergarten level.

In this political season, I've heard much about "American Exceptional-ism." We're all special. We're all exceptional. I never believed that growing up, and I don't believe that even now–not about myself, my own children, or my own students. We are only special or exceptional when we assert ourselves beyond what we were yesterday and beyond those around us. And even then, our specialness and exceptionality is fleeting. As it should be. 

We try too hard in American Education to cushion students from failure (by our system's definition). Instead of artificially inflating students' self esteem for doing what they should be doing anyway, I'm glad to see some people remembering that in order to mean anything praise ought to be earned by going beyond what's expected.