The focuses of this instructional post are in-class focus and feedback. The impetus is that many of you are straying from the path. You’re making poor decisions — wasting class time and ignoring instruction, for the most part.
There’s something there that should scare you. I’ll tell you what it’s not.
It’s not what happens when you ignore instruction. What you’re doing is insubordinate and disrespectful and breaking all kinds of rules, and our classroom can only tolerate that for so long. Then you face some kind of punishment. Parents are called, Guidance meetings are arranged, etc. But that should embarrass you, not scare you.
It’s not your grade. As the rest of this post will explain, for those of you able to read it, GAP scores suffer when there isn’t evidence of in-class focus and feedback. The margin for error is less these days, too. But that’s obvious. It shouldn’t scare you.
It’s not even what bad decisions truly do to you. You are, right now, becoming a permanent version of yourself, and that self, for some of you, is going to be uninteresting, unskilled, and undisciplined. Believing otherwise is the “grain through the body of a bird” error explained five or six years ago in the first guide to this stuff. But that is more depressing than it is scary.
What you ought to fear is missing out. Everyone who invests in this course and its philosophy, who works hard and pays careful attention, unlocks something special. In essence, there are two courses taught in Room 210. The first one exists to force you to do your work, pay attention, and develop basic skills and traits. It attempts to make you a half-decent citizen of the world. It’ll cover a few ELA staples, get you ready for any exams, and help you feel less stressed about grades.
The second course exists to transform you. Its students are smarter, more interesting, and more engaged. On their worst days, they have a space that understands and supports them. On their best days, they find freedom and inspiration.
Yes, you should be afraid of low grades, making disrespect a habit, upsetting the teacher enough that he decapitates you in the middle of class1. But you should be existentially terrified that you’ve wasted such an opportunity. And to be in a room with people who have unlocked that deeper level is a constant reminder that you could have done it, too. You could have the freedom to become a better person, to study what you want, to do what you want — and you’re wasting it so you can scroll through Instagram or play a video game2.
To figure out your GAP score, you only need the profiles, probably with the tiered annotations attached. You could use the expanded protocol, which is plenty effective, or the embedded content in that triptych post. But the original set of profiles and scores is enough.
Past the profiles, the GAP Google Forms you complete require you to assign a number only to in-class focus and feedback3. Those really are the two most important elements, even before you get to the profiles themselves. That’s why this most recent tool ought to help even the most disengaged of you sort out your profile:
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If the embedded version glitches out or isn’t accessible where you are, use the copies in our classroom, or load a copy of the handout through Google Drive by clicking here:
Starting at the top of that handout, you see again these two most basic requirements of this course, which are also the two keys that unlock upper-tier success:
- You must make the most of the class period.
- You must invest in feedback.
Feedback was the focus of this recent essay/post, which clarifies a lot of long-standing ideas, and we’ve stressed the importance of our time together during the school day since the start of the school year — see this essay or this one for a reminder.
Part 1 of the new handout (“The Keys”) asks you to self-assess your in-class focus and the level of feedback you’ve generated. Again, it’s an iteration of what you see in the Google Form you complete every three weeks or so. Depending on your browser, the graphics may not translate into what was originally intended. The line of emojis should look like this:
In other browsers, the faces may look like this:
This will seem unimportant at first, but there’s a reason to use faces instead of numbers. It’s about relative self-assessment. In our case, there are two perspectives. The first is the imagined perspective of an objective observer. What would someone notice about your in-class focus and feedback over the course of several weeks? That observer doesn’t care about why you were playing video games or mindlessly reloading Snapchat; he just makes a note that you were.
The second perspective is relative, and it’s inspired a bit by the Wong-Baker pain scale:
Ah, #8, my old friend.
There is a lot of subjectivity in this sort of self-assessment. What you consider to be a 10 — the worst pain you’ve ever experienced — might be only a 4 or 6 for a much less fortunate person. It’s still a 10 for you, though, because you can only base it on your experience. That’s the second perspective in our classroom: To a small extent, your best version of focusing might be different from that of others, and we might adjust — to a small extent — the standards to which you are held. You might be capable only of a certain level of feedback. That’s okay, if it’s true.
Again, the first perspective on your body of work is ultimately more important: What would an objective observer write down, if he was asked to describe your habits and behavioral patterns? We aren’t always after the reasons you were compelled to play on your phone for 35 minutes while your practice Regents Exam gathered dust in front of you. We can’t always take into consideration why you were playing video games instead of workshopping an essay. And, in fact, advocacy is such an integral part of the course that if you did need to space out for 35 minutes, you could probably ask for that, reflect on it later, and end up learning quite a bit about yourself4.
Part 2 of the handout (“The Engine”) clarifies these two perspectives through some close reading. The selections you see come from grade abatement profiles of 2, 4, 6, and 8, which give us final scores of 60, 70, 85, and 95, respectively. By any heuristic, these are the profiles that serve as benchmarks for failure and success. These small excerpts should help you arrive at a more accurate and helpful GAP score.
GAP 2 | A 2 {may indicate} [a deliberate and systemic disengagement]…
This is a question of repeated, conscious choice. How many times does a student need to disengage, miss work, lose focus, etc, before it is “deliberate and systemic”? How many mistakes are permissible? No one expects perfection, even at the level of a 9, but we have to start the discussion with some sort of threshold. You have agency and self-control, and very few students goof off out of malice. You do it without thinking. At a certain point, however, a lack of adjustment or a lack of thinking is a choice.
GAP 4 | These students {do not meet} [the basic requirements of the course]…
The GAP 2 has modal language, which is language suggesting possibility. The student “may” meet those criteria, but there are other ways to slip to that tier. For a GAP 4 and its surrounding scores, the language is direct: If you do not meet the basic requirements of the course, you really shouldn’t be scored any higher than a 4 (70).
The question, then, is what the course defines as its basic requirements. Right now, as always, the course values in-class focus and student-driven feedback more than anything else. This new handout also lists the obvious stuff, like getting work in on time and being amenable to redirection, as basic requirements. As the handout says, it’s about doing the job on the days you would rather be watching Netflix, instead of, you know, actually watching Netflix in class5.
So the question is, again, how lenient we ought to be. Where is the line between human error and apathy or indulgence? It isn’t a hypothetical question. Look at these data from around 9:00 AM on 5/17:
Those are the self-reported scores from about a dozen students. See how high the scores are? Maybe you can spot the issue when you read the original directions from the Google Classroom assignment:
That clearly states that completing the form before May 19 will lower your profile score. So about a dozen students, some of them otherwise excellent, didn’t read the directions before jumping in. They also didn’t read the calendar, and they seem to have forgotten that we never do these forms ahead of the last day of the three-week period. Yet they self-reported scores in Tier 4. Should those students receive lower GAP scores? Do we shrug away their mistake, even though it’s mid-May? Where do we draw the line?
And that’s an innocuous example.
GAP 6 | Students earning a 6 {are consistent and reliable} [in performance]…
My theory is that you consider “performance” to be only a particular set of things you do in school. Tests are performances. Essays are performances. Exams are definitely performances. The formative steps aren’t performative in the same way, so you cut corners and cheat the system if/when you need to. You copy homework, use Schmoop before a class discussion, and zone out during lectures.
This course rests on the opposite principle: The process is what matters, and the products should never be the primary focus of our learning. That means that “consistent and reliable” work happens every day. You saw the importance of that philosophy in the article we read about preschool crafts, but it’s written about and discussed constantly:
View at Medium.com
GAP 8 | An 8 {reflects} [a systemic investment in the course]…
In many of our notes on a GAP 8, we’ve talked about “galvanize” as the key verb. It’s true that you ought to be collaborating more here, and you ought to be using the interstitial mechanisms more to help your peers; the most important verb might be “reflects,” however, because of what it does for us metaphorically.
The rest of the time, you’re looking at quantifiable stuff. You can count the number of minutes you’re off-task when determining that a GAP 4 is your fate. If you believe you’ve been “consistent and reliable,” you can add up the assignments you’ve handed in, collate the formative and process-based work you did, and stack up your feedback-driven metacognition. When you invest in the entire system, however, your evidence moves beyond the quantifiable and into something more reflective.
Which is not to get too existential6. Think about how else we use “reflect” in here: It’s the other part of the self-monitoring you do, alongside metacognitive writing and discussion. You reflect your investment through self-monitoring. Once you observe the true purpose of the work, you can set the course accordingly. You’re in control of the learning, because you are involved in all parts of the system — not just the daily class periods and formal writing assignments, but everything.
Which is why Part 3 of this new handout, “The Vehicle,” is a list of the universal skills and traits we value. They are streamlined and edited a bit, but they haven’t changed fundamentally from the beginning of the year. When you are invested enough, your focus is on honing these skills, and you will see them reflected in everything you do.
That’s why it matters less which books we read, which essays you write, and which discussions we have. We do what we have to do in those regards, from Regents Exam prep to school-wide summer reading. The goal is for you to memorize this list of skills and traits, and then for us to work together to determine what you need to do to hone your strengths and eliminate your weaknesses. This becomes the blueprint for your growth:
At this point, your brain should be churning as it begins to process this. You may need to revisit and edit your most recent GAP score. You may need to ask questions in the comment section below7. Regardless, you absolutely must write something in response to all this feedback — not just because that is a formal assignment, but because it’s the whole point.
First, I want to add that I still believe that it is nearly impossible to fake in-class focus and feedback. You can fake a certain level of curiosity and empathy, but it’s nearly impossible to reframe a period spent off-task as anything but what it was. You can rush through a few pages of perfunctory reflection, but it’s nearly impossible to turn a real lack of feedback and investment into something else.
Since “nearly” impossible is not the same as “totally” impossible, I usually try to pitch faking it in here as a good idea, theoretically speaking. That was the theory as early on as the tenth section of this essay:
If you force yourself through the motions in here, those motions will inculcate the skills and traits we want. A misanthrope who forces himself to take collegial and galvanizing actions will incrementally learn empathy. A narcissist who forces herself to reflect and metacogitate every week will incrementally find new self-awareness and insight. An apathetic student who grinds through assignments just to get them done will incrementally gain a real appreciation for the value of the work.
That’s idealistic, but it seems to be true for most students: If you fake it, at least you’re doing some good.
I think there’s something else to add, though: If you decided that this “nearly impossible” claim was a challenge, you might figure out how to fake it. You might fool me. Or you might just slip through the cracks, earning credit when credit is definitely not due. Then the hard-working students become frustrated, seeing a kind of injustice. No one wants to feel cheated, to have a peer succeed dishonestly, or to see a good system subverted.
So here’s the thing: Did that person succeed? Did he really? When a student “cheats” in here, all he’s done is get worse at everything that the world actually values. That vehicle for learning — the list of universal skills and traits — might as well be a car rusting on cinder blocks in the front yard. The student, having gotten away with wasting class time and ignoring feedback, has made himself more distracted and more disrespectful. He knows less now and can do less with the little he knows than his peers. He’s grown dishonest and cynical and selfish.
That’s… not really a victory. How do you imagine you would celebrate that? “Boy, I tricked him! I’m a terrible student! My life is going to be much harder now!”
I mean, yes, I’m upset about that, but not in a mustache-twirling kind of way8. I would like the world to be filled with respectful, creative people who take advantage of extraordinary opportunities to learn about themselves and the world around them. I hope you will make that world a better place through your intelligence and compassion. I believe in your potential, and I hate to see it wasted.
That’s all.
