Mr. Secretary, Please Don’t Roll Back the Healthy Lunch Program

I was in a school cafeteria recently, watching with dismay as kids threw fresh fruits and salads in the garbage.  I asked one of the teachers I was working with about it, and she said that the school had been mandated to include healthy foods, but that most kids still weren’t eating those foods and were going for pizza and burgers instead.

Now President Trump’s Agriculture Secretary, George Perdue, is talking about rolling back Michelle Obama’s Healthy Schools Initiative for just such a reason.  “If kids aren’t eating the food, and it’s ending up in the trash, they aren’t getting any nutrition—thus undermining the intent of the program,” Perdue stated at an elementary school in Virginia.

While I am not a fan of waste—or of mandates—I think a rollback is a mistake.  Just because our first attempt at shifting eating patterns in American schools is not working does not mean we have to throw our hands up in defeat and declare that it can’t be done.

It can be done.  I have seen it—and tasted it—in action, in real life, in a real school.

The Village School in Eugene, Oregon has been serving meals cooked from scratch using mostly whole, organic and local foods for years.  This food ends up in student and staff bellies—not the garbage can.  While I haven’t conducted any scientific surveys to discover if these kids are happy to be eating this food and not to be eating the processed foods offered to them by other schools in the district, I have seen a lot of happy faces in their cafeteria and seen trays piled high with fresh fruits and vegies from their salad bar.

The Village School’s path to a healthy vibrant scratch-cooked lunch program was not easy.  It took years and lots of volunteer hours from dedicated parents and staff to establish their program.  They needed to build the community infrastructure to ensure that local, organic foods were available and affordable.  This took enrolling a lot of people into contributing to the school and donating food resources. It is proof, however, that it can be done.

It is possible to convince American children to forgo pizza and hamburgers in favor of Yumm bowls (a beans, rice, and vegie bowl with Eugene-based Café Yumm sauce on top) and to get them to eat more fruits and vegetables.

It is even possible to convince myself to eat that way.

I am a classic example of the failure of the standard American diet to produce health and vitality.

I have been struggling with my weight and with food issues since I entered puberty.  The rest of the members of my family were thin.  I ate what they ate and became obese.

Like my family, I assumed this was because I ate more than they did and exercised less.  They urged me to eat less and exercise more.  Their comments only served to make me feel that there was something wrong with me, a feeling that I often chose to mask through eating.

I have tried repeatedly throughout the years to remedy this situation either through increasing exercise or decreasing food consumption.

I haven’t successfully sustained either strategy.

It was only when I quit eating refined carbohydrates that I was able to lose weight and keep it off.  I felt like I had discovered the secret to the universe and reveled in my increased health and decreasing waistline.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to sustain a diet that did not include processed foods when the rest of my world kept eating them.

I am now in the process of getting back into the game of learning to be healthy and eating in a way that produces health, vitality, and wellbeing.  I am clear that this means learning to okay with eating very differently than my colleagues, friends, and family.

I have spent years throwing up my hands in defeat and feeling like it was just too hard to change my habits.  But it is time to put my belief in the power of learning into action and learn my way to health.

There is so much more information about how food works in the body that wasn’t available even a few years ago.  I am finding that the more I immerse myself in the science of digestion and in the neural control of appetite, the more excited I am to develop a way of eating that does not include processed foods and is different than the way my friends eat.

There was a time when I couldn’t envision a future without ice cream.  Now, such a future is beginning to seem brighter than one with it—because I am recognizing the cost I am paying for that indulgence.


So what do the success of the Village School and my own struggles to develop healthy eating habits have to do with Secretary Perdue’s decision that we shouldn’t move forward with our mandate to ensure that the foods we provide to school children in America are actually good for them?

Both cases serve to highlight the power of learning and the power of culture to influence what goes into people’s mouths.  Eating is a highly social activity.  What we eat is usually strongly influenced (often at a subconscious level) by what those around us eat. 

You cannot mandate good food choices.  Simply telling people to eat better doesn’t usually work.  It certainly did not work for me. 

But that doesn’t mean we just give up and let the food industry have full sway in our school cafeterias.  Instead, we can empower our school communities to continue engaging in the process of attempt-fail-analyze-adjust-and attempt again in a journey to creating cultures that value health over convenience.

The Village School accomplished this through bringing the whole school community on board in their process to develop their school lunch program.

I am accomplishing it through educating myself and conducting experiments in my own life to determine what actually works and what eating habits I can sustain long-term.

If the government says that schools are not mandated to provide healthy foods for their students, then it is time for school communities and leadership teams to take up the baton and work as professional learning communities to figure out how to help students develop the knowledge and life skills to take charge of their health and make life-sustaining choices for themselves.

Language That Sets You Free

Martin Pistororius was 12 years old when he fell ill.  His parents and his doctors did not know what was wrong with him, but he grew sicker and sicker until he finally fell into a vegetative state.  His doctors recommended that his family put him into a full-time care facility and wait for him to die.

But, they didn’t do that.

And Martin did not die.

For eight years his family cared for him.  Taking him to a care facility during the day and picking him up in the evenings.  Waking up to turn him over every two hours so he wouldn’t develop bed sores.  Feeding him and making him drink.

All of this for a young man who wasn’t aware.  A young man in a vegetative state.  A young man who, as far as they knew, wasn’t there.

Except he was.

About two years after he fell ill, Martin started coming back to himself.  He regained his consciousness.  He regained the ability to notice his surroundings and hear what people were saying around him.  He could understand their conversations and even clue in to their emotional states.

And no one noticed.


“They’d been told long ago that I was severely brain damaged, so when the young man with sticklike limbs, empty eyes and drool running down his chin occasionally lifted his head, that’s what they saw.  And so, I was cared for, fed and watered, wiped and cleaned, but never really noticed.  Again and again I’d ask my unruly limbs to make a sign and show someone I was still there, but they would never do as I asked.

I knew I was going to spend the rest of my life as powerlessly as I lived each present day and eventually I didn’t try to respond or react, but stared at the world with a blank expression.

To other people, I resembled a potted plant—something to be given water and left in the corner.  Everyone was so used to me not being there that they didn’t notice when I began to be present again.  I’d been put into a box long before after all.  Each of us has.  Are you the difficult child or the histrionic lover, the argumentative sibling or the longsuffering spouse? 

Boxes make us easier to understand.  But they also imprison us because people don’t see past them.  We all have fixed ideas of each other, even though the truth can be far removed from what we think we see.

That is why no one asked what it might mean when I started to improve enough to answer simple questions like, “Would you like tea?” with a turn of my head or a smile.”


Jimmy Santiago Baca was also imprisoned in a box.  He was imprisoned in a box of lack of expectations, lack of opportunity, and lack of love.

Jimmy was thirteen years old when he was first locked up.  His parents had abandoned him to an orphanage when he was seven, and after repeated attempts to escape to rejoin his family, the state finally placed him in a detention center.

Jimmy was a young man looking for a home and a place to belong.  He was crying out for love and attention.

And no one noticed.

Six years later, after numerous bouts in and out of jail, he was sentenced to hard time for his part in a drug bust where an FBI agent was killed.  Jimmy entered prison illiterate and youthfully innocent, he left it toughened and a man of words.

Here are some of his words:

“But if prison was the place of my downfall, a place where my humanity was cloaked by the rough fabric of the most primitive manhood, it was also the place of my ascent.  I became a different man, not because prison was good for me, but in spite of its destructive forces.  In prison I learned to believe in myself and to dream for a better life.

You make use of what is available and near at hand, no matter what your circumstances.  I did what I had to do to survive.  But I also determined not to become what in my heart I knew I was not:  I was not going to let them make me into a ward of the state.  I was lucky, too.  For in that place where life and death are waging war every day and the right choice is often the most difficult one, I was able to reach out and find a finger hold on the fragile ledge of hope.  Hope didn’t support me all the time, and wouldn’t have supported others in quite the same way, but it served well enough for me to slowly pull myself up.  Very simply, I learned to read and write.”


I read these two men’s stories at different times while traveling for my job on my way to school sites—and a prison—to help spread the power of reading.

They were two such different men and came from different kinds of families, yet both personified the amazing power of the human spirit and the amazing power of language to uplift and empower.

Martin escaped from his prison of silence and isolation when a care provider noticed his awareness and urged his family to get him tested.  He learned to communicate with a computer and—once given a voice—taught himself to read and fix computers.  With the hope that language gave him, he was able to retrain his body and regain movement that no one thought was possible.  He still cannot walk or speak out loud, but he is married and living a full life.

Jimmy was denied the opportunity to attend school while in prison and endured long months in isolation when he refused to work in protest.  While still under lock and key, he escaped his prison by teaching himself to read and write.

“Language gave me a way to keep the chaos of prison at bay and prevent it from devouring me; it was a resource that allowed me to confront and understand my past, even to wring from it some compelling truths, and it opened the way toward a future that was not based on fear or bitterness or apathy but on compassionate involvement and a belief that I belonged.”

One thing that resonated in both men’s stories is how hard they pushed themselves to learn once they had hope that learning was possible.  Their learning was not casual, easy, or fun.  It was fierce!  They fought for all that learning!  They sweated.  They pushed themselves and went beyond what was comfortable.

Another common note is that both men’s journey toward self-realization began with another human believing in them and expressing that belief. 

Martin might still be locked in silence if not for a woman who noticed that he smiled in response to what was happening to him.  Jimmy might still be locked in a life of crime and punishment if not for a man who sent him a letter and patiently wrote back to his first poorly written replies.

I don’t know that I’ve ever had that kind of impact, but I am determined to see—fully see—all those who come before me in moments of learning.  I am determined to see the beauty of their humanity and the amazing power of their brains to learn and grow.  I am determined to keep sharing the astounding power of words and offering the gift of literacy in any capacity that I can to whomever I am privileged to work with.

The Death Knoll for the Bell Curve

In 2004, as a fairly new teacher, I sat in a room and listened to district leaders explain President Bush’s plan to improve education—the now defunct, but then new law—No Child Left Behind.  They put some charts up on a screen and explained that by 2014, 100% of America’s children were expected to reach proficiency in reading and math.

I remember thinking at the time that President Bush was insane and had no clue about mathematics.  Hadn’t he ever heard of the bell curve?  Didn’t he know that it was impossible for 100% of students to reach proficiency?

We have always had winners and losers in American schools.  I did not see how just setting a goal for 100% proficiency would be able to change that paradigm or change the ways our schools were operating.  

I left that meeting feeling depressed about the future of education.  I was deeply afraid that pushing for better test scores was not just impossible, but likely to cause extreme damage to the way that schools worked.  I envisioned a narrowing of the curriculum and a move towards “teaching to the test”.  I envisioned shaming of teachers who were working with some of the toughest kids in some of the toughest schools.

Those who have been involved in education since 2004 will know that a narrowing of the curriculum and teaching to the test did indeed occur in many American schools.  In fact, some schools resorted to cheating as a response to high stakes testing.  Many districts cut programs—like art and music—that were not being tested.  Public shaming of teachers happened.  Newspapers published lists of teachers and schools who were not doing well at raising test scores.  

A lot of damage to education was indeed done in the name of No Child Left Behind.

However, something kind of wonderful happened as well.

Teachers started talking more.  We started looking at data in new ways.  We started asking questions about students that weren’t learning.  We started getting more inventive—if our leaders empowered us—and looking beyond the letter of the law.

The professional learning community (PLC) movement became stronger and schools and districts began giving time and resources to enable teachers to work together and get better at the art and science of teaching.

In the 13 years since that day, I have learned a lot about teaching and learning.  I have been training myself in the science of learning—both from a psychological perspective and from a neurological perspective—and I am now ready to throw out my unhelpful story that it is impossible for 100% of students to reach proficiency.

I am ready to declare the death knoll for the bell curve.

I now believe that the bell curve is a product of expecting all students to learn at the same rate.  It is a product of expecting that all students can be sorted by age level and are equally ready to learn.  It is a product of expecting that all students in a grade must be studying the same things at the same time.

Although I don’t know of any school or district that has yet achieved a system that has truly killed the bell curve, I know of many (and more joining them every year) that are well on their way towards creating personalized learning systems that harness the natural power of human brains to learn.

I recently discovered Competency Works—an organization that posts daily doses of inspiration about what schools, districts, and entire states around the country are doing to shift the model of American education from a grade-level based (what some have called a factory) model to a personalized model that allows students more “choice and voice” in their learning.

Here is just a brief snippet from a post by Karla Esparza-Phillips and Ace Parsi.

“In his book The End of Average, Todd Rose describes how a faulty belief in the idea of an average student has led to the design of one-size-fits all systems.  Rose state that “there can never be equal opportunity on average.  Only equal fit creates equal opportunity.”

This is the premise of personalized learning—designing systems flexible and responsive enough to address students’ needs as well as build on their strengths and interest, thus recognizing what every parent and teacher has always known—that every child is different.

Our hope is that personalized learning may present the opportunity to flip the traditional model upside down.  Or better yet, put it right side up.”

The work these schools have done to empower teachers, administrators, parents, and students is awe inspiring and fills me with deep wells of hope for public education.

I can now envision a time when American educators have been empowered so much that they are able to give each brain exactly what it needs to learn

I can now envision a time when all students are empowered enough to see themselves as powerful learners who are fully capable of mastery of anything.

I can now envision a time when I no longer hear students saying things like “I hate math.” or “Reading is stupid.”  

I can now envision a time when 100% of students in a school are excellent readers.

I can now envision a time when we shake our heads at people who believed that the bell curve was a reflection of natural intelligence much the same way we shake our heads at people who believed the shapes of our skulls indicated our intellectual potential.


Does Practice Really Work in Schools?

Photo credit Clem Onojeghuo at

I recently clicked on a link to an article in which New Yorker columnist Maria Konnikova wrote about the impact of practice on expert performance.  “Practice matters,” she stated, “but in many fields, it matters much less than you might think.”  She then referenced a 2014 meta-analysis that concluded that deliberate practice did not improve performance in education.

I was stunned.  I worship at the feet of Daniel Coyle and Anders Ericsson.  I preach the power of deliberate practice to students and teachers in reading classrooms across the country.  I have seen the impact of deliberate practice in the rapid increase in reading skills and the improvement of teacher skill over and over in my ten years as a Read Right training consultant.

Yet, I am a believer in science over personal experience.  It is possible I am wrong.  It is possible that deliberate practice does not really improve teacher or student skill.  I determined to open my mind and look deeper.

I clicked on another link in the article and looked into the meta-analysis itself.  The study found that percentage of variance in performance in education that was “explained by deliberate practice” was only 4%.

4%!  Holy Cow!

And that wasn’t the worst of it.

Reading the article, it became clear that what the study meant by education was the relationship between practice and students’ performance—not the relationship between practice and teachers’ performance.

Teachers’ performance was not studied independently but lumped in with other professions. In the professions, the relationship between “deliberate practice” and performance was only 1%!

Another bigger, louder Holy Cow!

Could I be that wrong?  Was my belief in the power of deliberate practice misguided and not based on the science?

I looked a little deeper.  In the study, the authors frequently refer to deliberate practice, but they do not define it the same way that Ericsson does.  They say that deliberate practice is “engagement in structured activities created specifically to improve performance in a domain.”  They do not define it as repeated attempts within someone’s zone of challenge with a focus on finding and fixing mistakes as Ericsson and Coyle do.

There is no attempt to distinguish the type of practice that is actually taking place.  They don’t differentiate the type of practice that typically takes place in schools and the type that takes place when someone is training for a sport or learning a musical instrument.

This is where the “aha moment” happens.

Of course, there is a weak relationship between “practice” and performance in education.  It is still the rare classroom that has students or teachers engage in true deliberate practice.  Our schools are not yet designed for that.

Ericsson states:

“When most people practice, they focus on the things they already know how to do.  Deliberate practice is different.  It entails considerable, specific, and sustained efforts to do something you can’t do well—or even at all.  Research across domains shows that it is only by working at what you can’t do that you turn into the expert you want to become.”

Deliberate practice is not any practice.  Deliberate practice is not just doing the skill and trying to do it right or even better.  This is the type of practice that mostly happens in our schools.

In schools, teachers usually “practice” by teaching.  Most teachers (contrary to some popular opinion) actively engage in working to get better at the skills of teaching.  They read articles, listen to podcasts, and attend conferences and trainings.  They try new skills and implement new systems.  If they are lucky, they work in professional learning communities and have opportunities to share new ideas and new methods with their colleagues.

But is only the very few—and the very blessed—that actually have the freedom and support to engage in repeated deliberate practice.

The very blessed have the time and freedom to teach the same lesson over and over while engaged in focused inquiry about what is working and what is not working.  They get to attempt-fail-analyze-adjust each lesson until excellence is achieved.

They do this a lot in Japan–it is called jugyokenkyu or “lesson study”.  Japanese teachers work in teams to perfect a teaching method by teaching the same lesson over and over and fixing aspects that are not working.

We don’t really do this in

the United States.

Fortunately, this is changing.  For an example of teachers engaged in true deliberate practice check out the work of the Teaching Channel Sarah Brown Wessling demonstrates how to squeeze every drop of learning from a lesson by revisiting what went wrong multiple times.

Somehow, I don’t think this is the kind of “deliberate practice” that Macnamara et-al included in their study.  This is something more than “engagement in structured activities created specifically to improve performance in a domain.”

In schools, students usually “practice” by doing school work.  Most students start out actively trying to get better at the things they are learning in school.  Some of them are able to maintain a strong focus on learning throughout their school careers.  However, far too many of our students have learned how to “do school”, not how to engage in repeated deliberate practice of the skills that are important to them.

They may engage in deliberate practice outside of school but it is only the very few—who little idea how blessed they are—who engage in repeated deliberate practice that involves doing the same task over and over with feedback until excellence is achieved.

For an example of deliberate practice, check out this video.

Deliberate practice is practice that is specifically designed to engage the learner in his “zone of proximal development”.  It is practice that is challenging for the learner and requires some type of adjustment, some sort of failure before the learner can achieve success, yet which is not so challenging that the learner cannot achieve success with a sufficient number of attempts.

Deliberate practice is practice where the learner pays attention to what they cannot yet accomplish, what is not yet excellent, and tries again and again with the specific intention of achieving excellence.

Deliberate practice is iterative.  It is attempt, fail, analyze, adjust, and try again.  It is not do something once and turn it in for a grade. It is do something, analyze how it could be better, and do it again and again and again until you achieve a reliable ability to do that thing consistently excellently.

Deliberate practice is fierce!  It requires us to face our fears and persevere in the face of embarrassment.  As Daniel Coyle says it requires “…a willingness to feel stupid.  To endure the unique social-emotional burn of repeated clumsiness.”

“The journey to truly superior performance is neither for the faint of heart nor for the impatient.  The development of genuine expertise requires struggle, sacrifice, and honest, often painful self-assessment.  There are no shortcuts.  It will take you at least a decade to achieve expertise, and you will need to invest that time wisely, by engaging in “deliberate” practice—practice that focuses on tasks beyond your current level of competence and comfort.  You will need a well-informed coach not only to guide you through deliberate practice but also to help you learn how to coach yourself.  Above all, if you want to achieve top performance as a manager and a leader, you’ve got to forget the folklore about genius that makes people think they cannot take a scientific approach to developing expertise.”

The Making of an Expert, K. Anders Ericsson, Michael J. Prietula, and Edward T. Cokely, Harvard Business Review

Macnamara et-al concluded that Ericsson and his colleagues were wrong in their belief in the power of deliberate practice in education and the professions.

I suspect, however, that their study illuminated something else.

Holy cow we have a long way to go in figuring out how to practice well in schools in the U.S.!

Figuring it out will take bravery, shame resilience, fierceness, collaboration and support.

We will have to be willing to fail—repeatedly—as we invent the kinds of schools and cultures that allow our teachers and our students the time and flexibility to engage in true deliberate practice.

But there are amazing teachers and leaders and students engaged in this work and more and more of us are getting grounded in the science of deliberate practice and calling for learning environments that allow us to iterate and fail until we get it right.

The Reading Wars Revisited





I woke up this morning in the wee hours with the strange thought going through my head that it was time to gird up my loins, put on some armor, get ready for battle, and head back out to front lines of war.

The Reading Wars, that is.

I have been on the sidelines of these wars for the last ten years—quietly, insistently, raising my voice and fighting small battles one school at a time.

I think the reason my subconscious issued me a call to action this morning was that I recently reread Daniel Coyle’s excellent book, The Talent Code.  Coyle’s perspective on learning is empowering and echoes and reinforces the lessons I have learned in my ten years as a Read Right training consultant and my seventeen years as a student of how learning works.  Coyle stands firmly for the science of how the brain learns by repeated practice that is focused on fixing mistakes.

I am with him!  Attempt, fail, analyze, adjust—this is the mantra I live my life by.  And it is how people get better at reading.

But, I think Coyle missed the boat with his take on the Reading Wars.

Here is Coyle’s view:

“For the last forty years or so American Education has been divided by what’s become known as the Reading Wars.  On one side stand the traditionalist forces of Phonics, who believe that the best way to learn to read is through memorizing the sounds of letters and letter-groups.  On the other side are the followers of Whole Language, a theory founded in the 1970s that says all children possess the innate ability to read and write, which arrives according to fixed developmental stages.  They believe the teacher’s role is to be, as the saying goes, “a guide on the side, not a sage on the stage.”

For much of the 1980s Whole Language was on the ascent.  “Matching letters with sounds is a flat-earth view of the world,” wrote Kenneth Goodman in What’s Whole in Whole Language.  Schools started providing literacy-rich environments of books, words, and stories where kids could express this presumably innate ability.  Meaning was emphasized over mere sound; systematic instruction in grammar was considered passé.  Students were encouraged to ignore errors and use invented spelling.  The movement caught on in education circles, and politicians trotted after.  In 1987 California mandated Whole Language for teaching reading and writing.

For midde- and upper-income kids, Whole Language seemed to help, or at least not to obviously hurt.  For minority and low-income kids, however, it was an unqualified disaster.  By the early 1990s California’s scores on the National Assessment of Educational Progress ranked lower than every state’s but Louisiana.  Other states that adopted Whole Language experienced similar test-score drops.  In 1998 two major research efforts, the National Research Council and the National Reading Panel, found that the lack of Phonics contributed to lower rates of achievement for most students.  Charles Sykes writes in Dumbing Down Our Kids of a fourth grader who received above-average grades and a teacher’s comment of “Wow!” for writing, “I’m going to has majik skates.  Im goin to go to disenelan.  Im goin to bin my mom and dad and brusr and sisd. We r go to se mickey mouse.”

Accordingly, the pendulum whipped back toward Phonics.  Defenders of Whole Language have retrenched, incorporating Phonics into their theories but still lobbying for the essential truth of their view.  Phonics supporters, on the other hand, point to their own list of promising programs.  All of which leaves many teachers and schools wading through piles of seemingly contradictory theories and wondering who’s right

Looking at the question through the prism of the talent code, the answer is clear.  The relationship between Phonics and Whole Language precisely mirrors the relationship between deep practice and ignition.  Phonics is about building reliable circuits, paying attention to errors, and fixing them.  It’s about chunking: breaking down a skill into its component parts, and practicing and repeating each action involved in that skill.  It’s about the systematic firing of the signals that build the trusty high-speed skill circuits you’re using right now.

Whole Language on the other hand, is about ignition, about filling motivational fuel tanks by creating environments where children fall in love with reading and writing.  Like any ignition, Whole Language can create acceleration for those who already have the inclination and opportunity to deep-practice, but it is worthless for those who don’t.  To understand myelin is to understand that the Reading Wars should not be a war.  Students need both to succeed.”

I do not fault Coyle on his history of the Reading Wars or his science of myelination, but his view on what deep practice in reading should look like, as well as what constituted Whole Language theory, had me lying awake at 4:00 in the morning forming an imaginary rebuttal.

And Coyle’s voice wasn’t the only voice prodding my subconscious.  I also heard echoes of the high school librarian who appealed to me to help her convince her district’s leadership to keep their Read Right program going.

“They’ve cut our staffing—our program is basically dead.”

“I feel like this program literally saves kids’ lives!”

“We know what works—not providing it is akin to malpractice.”

“Why isn’t Read Right in the What Works Clearinghouse?”

“What can we do?”

Her words reverberated in my mind and refused to let me fall back into sleep.

“Not providing it is akin to malpractice.”


Someone else’s words kept echoing in my mind as well—a teacher I sat next to at a conference on culturally responsive teaching.

I shared with her what I do and my concerns that our schools were not currently excelling at producing excellent readers who are grounded in meaning and capable of reading completely comfortably and naturally.

I shared that in school after school that I visit, the majority of students are not excellent readers and how I think that is because we do not currently offer opportunities for students to keep training their brains in reading to the level of excellence—and we also often send students inadvertently down a path towards developing reading problems by focusing on intense direct instruction in phonics and decoding at the expense of making meaning.

Later she said, “When I listen to you talk, it sounds like you’re down on teachers.”

This made me sad, because I am not down on teachers.  I am a teacher.  I understand how challenging it is to work in classrooms today.  I have tremendous respect for all of those engaged in educating our youth.  The teachers who are doing direct instruction in phonics are doing what they know to do—what they have been trained to do—and what they believe is in the best interest of their students.

The problem is, it isn’t working.

Our experiment in “Whole Language” didn’t work.  Coyle’s reading of the history of the movement is correct.  Reading and writing skills deteriorated.

However, our experiment with “Explicit Instruction in Phonics” is not doing much better.  In 2011 California was still ranked 46 out of 52 states and jurisdictions according to the 2011 National Assessment of Educational Progress.

And I know from my visits to schools around the country that even in districts that are posting better test scores, most students are not avid readers who are grounded in meaning when they read.  In other words, most students are not excellent readers even when they are reading at grade level.

We can do better.

We must do better.

Read Right Systems has been demonstrating for thirty years that there is a better approach–one that acknowledges that reading is a complex neural process that happens mostly below the level of consciousness, and that brains can get better at this process by engaging in deliberate practice in real reading within the “zone of proximal development” with ongoing specific feedback about what is working and what is not.

Is not giving all the children in our care the opportunity to become excellent at reading akin to malpractice?

No, it’s not, if we are sincerely doing everything we know to do to help our students learn to read.

But once we have seen something that works, and works reliably with all types of learners, then, yes, we have a moral urgency to move forward and try that something new.

Chris Sturgis, from Competency Works, recounts how a teacher in Colorado felt about his district moving forward with performance based education (which is essentially what Read Right methodology is) after seeing it in action in California.

“I’ve heard this phrase before, of not having a choice but to go forward, during other site visits. Often it is described as “moral urgency.” I asked Cook about it. He explained that after visiting a district that had been trying to balance teaching students at their performance levels part of the day with grade-level curriculum the other half (as far as I know, this was a failed experiment, so don’t try it at home) he realized that trying to do P-BL in baby steps, small chunks, halfway, or as hybrids wasn’t going to work. “There are many who don’t realize that delivering grade level curriculum day after day to kids regardless of whether they are learning or not is based on an archaic pedagogy,” he explained. “Many students are harmed by this – they end up thinking that they aren’t smart or give up on school. We know so much more about how students learn today, and our schools should be shaped around it. But if they don’t know that they are doing something harmful, are they really responsible?” He continued, “Once you see personalized, performance-based learning in action, you face a moral question. Are you going to be like Thomas Jefferson who knew that slavery is wrong but kept doing it anyway? Or once you realize that there is a better way to help students learn, are you going to do it, even if you bump up against other parts of the system?” He emphasized, “As a school system, we need to be clear – are we chasing students or test scores? Or trying to do both at once?” (You can listen to Darren Cook yourself on this video.)”

My anguish is that in 30 years of training teachers to deliver a methodology that is working to turn struggling readers into excellent readers, Read Right has not succeeded in shifting the national conversation about how to teach reading.

I haven’t seen any research on our methodology other than what Read Right has done itself.

I haven’t heard anyone talking about the implicit aspects of reading and how those implicit aspects cannot be taught explicitly because the brain doesn’t work like that.

I haven’t succeeded in convincing any schools that Read Right methodology is more than a reading intervention that they should only offer to their struggling readers.  I ask them, “Why should we only offer the opportunity to become excellent to a few?”  Their answer is always that they can’t afford to deliver the methodology any other way.

So, yes, I believe I have a moral obligation re-enter the Reading Wars.  I have a moral obligation to be a leader of learning and begin to shift that national conversation about what brains need—and what kinds of environments give them what they need—in order to become not just good readers, but excellent readers.

However, now that I am fully awake, I can see that the metaphor of a war is the wrong metaphor.  I do not have enemies.  I have colleagues.

My colleagues and I are all engaged in learning.  We are all engaged in getting better at getting better.  We are all on a journey to move ourselves and our schools up the learning curve.

We are fellow travelers on the road to developing schools that work for everyone and reading environments that are personalized, engaging, holistic, based on brain science, and highly effective.

Image by Clem Onojeghuo from

Shame and Learning

I am up for creating a world full of vibrant learning for all—and one of the biggest obstacles in my path is shame.  There is not much that shuts down learning faster.  There’s not much that shuts me down faster—that keeps me from taking risks, taking on new projects, or saying what I really believe.  And I’ve been playing the shame game for as long as I can remember.

My earliest, most vivid memory of shame is from first grade.  I made the dreadful mistake of forgetting to wear underwear to school.  But that wasn’t my biggest mistake.  I also was wearing a dress.  Forgetting to wear underwear when you’re in first grade is not such a big deal—unless you’re also wearing a dress.  Then, it’s a big deal.

But even that wasn’t my biggest mistake.  Forgetting to wear underwear when you’re wearing a dress in first grade is recoverable.  Just remember to sit and keep your skirts down.  Don’t go on the monkey bars, don’t go down the slide, and don’t do cartwheels.  Fairly simple.

Or it should have been.  But first grade didn’t come with an instruction manual and nobody told me that the worst thing to do when you’re in first grade and wearing a dress with no underwear is to sit down and cry about it.  I sat and cried.

I sat and cried with my legs splayed, my head in my hands and my sobs bursting forth—and every naturally curious elementary student came over to find out what was wrong and ended up peeking up my skirts.

It took me years to share this story.  And even now, my cheeks are pink with embarrassment and shame.  Yes.  Shame.  Still, after all these years.  I keep thinking, “How could I have been so stupid?  Why didn’t I just hide my mistake instead of blaring it to the whole schoolyard?”

As an adult, I have some compassion and empathy for my seven-year-old self.  But I don’t always have that same compassion for my fifty-year-old self.  I still find myself saying unhelpful and unkind things about myself:  “How could I be so stupid?”  “How come I am still so fat?”  “Woman, you are ugly!”  “You should be better at this by now.”

What does any of this have to do with learning?

In some ways everything.

When I am in the throes of shame, I am not capable of the risk-taking that learning requires.  I pull in.  I shut down.  I hide.  I may not still be sobbing on the playground with my legs splayed, but that little girl is still alive in me shouting, “Don’t be mocked!  Don’t let people laugh at you!  Don’t let them judge you out loud!”

When I pull in, when I hide, when I shut down—I stop learning.  Because learning requires participation, engagement, and being willing to fail.

Learning requires failing and being willing to try again and again and again.  Learning requires asking for and being willing to listen to specific feedback about where we are not yet excellent and how we can improve our product or our process.  Learning requires us to acknowledge that we are not yet perfect.  Learning is an act of courage.  Learning is an act of daring.

In the words of Brené Brown, author of Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead, learning requires shame-resilient cultures that “nurture folks who are much more open to soliciting, accepting, and incorporating feedback.  These cultures also nurture engaged, tenacious people who expect to have to try and try again to get it right—people who are much more willing to get innovative and creative in their efforts.”

Schools around the country have been engaged for years in fostering growth mindsets and building grit and resilience in their students.  In my work in schools I have seen evidence of this work that teachers and districts are doing to foster greater resilience.  All of these efforts are admirable and are helping to build shame-resilient cultures in our schools.

Yet, at the same time, the national conversation about schools and teachers is often a shaming conversation.  We blame teachers for the failures of schools to change.  We blame teachers for low test scores.  We blame teachers for lack of student engagement.  We blame teachers for making schooling so expensive. The list of things we blame teachers for is long and often strident.

And even when it is not coming from outside, we often blame ourselves.  “I should have known better.”  “I should have been able to reach that student.”  “I should be better at engaging students.”

And we blame students too…and parents…and subcultures…and ethnicities…and socio-economic status.  The list of who or what is to blame when learning doesn’t happen, or doesn’t happen fast enough, is also long and frequently aggressively articulated with ugly words.

But blame and shame are not very effective tools for bringing about the changes we really want and need in public education.

Peter Sheahan, author and CEO of Karrikins Group says:

The secret killer of innovation is shame.  You can’t measure it, but it is there.  Every time someone holds back on an idea, fails to give their manager much needed feedback, and is afraid to speak up in front of a client you can be sure shame played a part.  That deep fear we all have of being wrong, of being belittled and of feeling less than, is what stops us from taking the very risks required to move our companies forward.

I love how the Maine Department of Education says it:

It is important to point out that our schools are not struggling due to a lack of effort.  Educators in Maine and across the nation are working harder than ever… [O]our schools are not failing, they are simply obsolete:  They were built for a bygone era, and the world of the 21st century requires something new.  —Education Evolving, Maine Department of Education

Perhaps we can stop talking about how are teachers are failing, or our students are failing, or our schools are failing, and start talking about how to build the new kinds of systems that allow vibrant learning to take place where shame is no longer part of the equation.

To create the kinds of learning environments that allow students to dare greatly, requires allowing educators to dare greatly.  We have to trust in the talents and integrity and creativity of the adults we have entrusted with the education of our children.  We have to empower them to be risk takers, to be willing to seek and receive feedback, to be willing to try new things, to be willing to invent the “something new” without fear of losing jobs or public shaming.


New Words-New Paradigms

I learned a new word today.  And it is an ugly word.  At least that’s what David Price calls it.  Price, who introduced the word in his book, Open: How We’ll Work, Live, and Learn in the Future, calls it one of the “three ugliest words in the English language”.

But I—I thought it beautiful.  I thought it powerful.  I thought it captured in one swoop an idea I’ve been pondering for years.

The word is heutagogy.

My spell checker doesn’t even recognize it as a word and the average person like me wouldn’t begin to guess the meaning just by looking at it, but I think it is jaw-droppingly gorgeous.

I’ll let Price explain it, as he does so beautifully.

“There must be some unwritten academic maxim somewhere that if you want to dissuade people from attempting to understand how learning works, you give them the worst names you can think of.  I will attempt to explain this in simple language, but let’s start with a technical announcement:

Though it was happening anyway, ‘open’ has accelerated the shift from pedagogy, to andragogy, to heutagogy.

There, aren’t you glad I told you that?  Notwithstanding the fact that I managed to combine the three ugliest words in the English language in a single sentence, I like to think there’s quite a profound thought in there.  The word pedagogy derives from Greek and, literally translated, means ‘to lead the child’; andragogy is translated as ‘to lead the man (adult); heutagogy means ‘to lead to find’.  I know that’s not much clearer.  But, if we look at commonly-used interpretations, it gets better.

In pedagogy, the learner is led to a conclusion determined by the teacher, informed by the teacher’s knowledge and beliefs—it could be termed ‘instructional learning’.  In andragogy, though the destination may be decided by the tutor, the route involves greater learner involvement, acknowledging the importance of relevance, motivation, and problem solving.  Although andragogy is a term open to many interpretations, let’s use it here to denote ‘self-directed learning’.  In heutagogy, there is not necessarily a defined destination, nor a prescribed route—it is self-determined learning.”

Price writes about the shift from pedagogy to andragogy to heutagogy as if there was a hierarchy with one level being better than the next, but I see it a little differently.  I see these three ways of looking at my role as a teacher as three tools in my tool belt.  Three tools that I can master and then choose which one to use depending on the needs of the learner.

The schools and teachers of today need access to all of these types of ways of thinking about teaching and learning.  We have invested heavily in training ourselves in pedagogy.  When that is the only tool we use, however, learners suffer.  Learners who are never given the freedom to choose what they want to learn, how they want to learn it, or how fast they must go when learning will begin to invent unhelpful stories about learning and their own capacities as learners.

I hear it all the time:

“Math is stupid.”

“I hate reading.”

“Why do I have to learn this?  I’ll never use it”

“I can’t do this.  It’s too hard.”

“This is boring.”

“I’m stupid.”

Some people might say that learners who say these things just have an attitude problem. If they’d just change their mindset, they might find they liked reading or math.  But I say that learners develop these unhelpful stories when the learning environments we create for them do not match what their brains need.  I have seen these stories change as the learning environment changes and we allow learners to start where they are-without judgement-and progress at their own pace.

Yet, given too much ‘self-determined’ learning or even ‘self-directed’ learning when we’re at the low end of the learning curve doesn’t work well either.  How many of us have shied away from learning because we didn’t have someone to guide us through the process?  We didn’t know where to start.  We didn’t know what we needed to learn.  I have put off for years (or abandoned altogether) learning about things—things I knew I could be passionately interested in if I could just develop a little skill—because I didn’t know how to teach myself.

Singing, Zumba, ballet, piano, videography—all abandoned almost as soon as I started because I didn’t have enough skill or enough of a growth mindset to persist through the tough beginning stages of learning.

Sometimes we need a little pedagogy.

But, often, we need more than that.  We need pedagogy, and andragogy, and heutagogy.   We need all three beautiful tools in our tool belts.