Failing at Passing

“What’s your failure rate?”

That’s a question principals, department heads, and other interested parties may be asking teachers in upcoming weeks. It’s a question that causes anxiety, tension, and cognitive conflict for many teachers. The expected or “right” answer to that question had better be a really low number or, preferably, zero. It’s the teacher’s responsibility to make sure everyone passes, right? No child is left behind. We don’t let kids fail.

Receiving messages like these--ones teachers may interpret to mean they are not allowed to have any Fs in their gradebooks—causes angst because not letting kids fail isn’t as simple as it seems. When teachers look at their gradebooks and notice that students are failing, they’re faced with a dilemma that seems resolvable through several pathways:

• Devise some sort of do-over plan (or, in the case of some students who are missing assignments, a “do” plan), which could involve retaking tests and/or amnesty for incomplete or missing work.

• Add in a few “extra” assignments that struggling students are sure to do well on to counterbalance low grades already in the gradebook. This solution typically involves participation grades or “creative” assignments with low standards for success.  

• Lower their standards. Make tests and assessments easier. Grade work for completion rather than accuracy. If students can’t reach the bar, lower it.

• Do some gradebook magic tricks that cause some assignments to simply disappear and some grades to rise on their own. Presto! No more failing students!

Each of the these solutions is problematic, and some are completely unethical. But we all know that when feeling trapped in a no-win situation, sometimes people make poor choices.

The thing that frustrates and frequently infuriates teachers faced with the mandate to eliminate student failures is that it’s hard to give a passing grade to a student who has put forth no effort in class. This student doesn’t deserve to pass. He’s done absolutely nothing all semester. One problem with the no-fail classroom is that some students have learned to work the system. They know that the teacher is going to reach a point of desperation and are hedging their bets that things are going to get easier for them so that they can pass without earning the grade.

Here’s the truth as I see it:  A student who hasn’t mastered the objectives and standards for a course shouldn’t pass the course.

Here’s the caveat that accompanies that truth: Most gradebooks measure things other than objectives and standards. If a student is failing a teacher’s class because of factors unrelated to objectives or standards, that failure is difficult to defend.

In other words, if the student is failing because of a lack of compliance but knows and can demonstrate what he or she is supposed to know, that student deserves to pass. If passing a class hinges on completion of activities and assignments that don’t relate to the state standards, teachers ought to rethink what they are putting in their gradebooks.

I can’t find a Texas state standard that says that students have to demonstrate the ability to complete work on time. There aren’t standards that stipulate that students color maps neatly in social studies class. I’m pretty sure that following a correct heading format isn’t a state objective, nor is having a parent sign a syllabus, letter, or reading/practice log. Anything related to actual classroom behavior should be off-limits in a gradebook. Finding words in a word search? Nope. Baking a cake or cookies should probably only count for a grade in Family and Consumer Science classes as there isn’t a state objective in academic classes that involves food preparation, procurement, or consumption. And there’s no objective that says students must donate tissues, paper towels, or other classroom supplies.

In my days as a student, I received grades or suffered numerical penalties for every one of those things at some point, and I have given grades or deducted points for many of them over the years as a classroom teacher. I’m sure most of us have. But when we know better, we have to do better.

Before I knew better, some students failed my class who probably had mastered the objectives of the course, and other students received inflated grades in my class because of their compliance, their art skills, and their participation, not because of their high-level mastery of the objectives. Looking back, both of those bother me.

Gradebooks have one job: to communicate whether a student has mastered the objectives of a course. Recording grades based on completion or on aspects unrelated to standards misleads parents and students about students’ progress. It also unfairly penalizes students who know the content and skills but can’t be bothered to jump through the extraneous hoops.

A student, then, who doesn’t master the objectives of a course might receive a failing grade. But what about that lingering refrain that says, “We don’t let students fail”? Educators should be relentless in their efforts to teach students so they can master objectives. That doesn’t mean that teachers give up on students, saying, “If they’re not going to try, then that’s their decision.” Students are not adults and don’t get to make that decision. It also doesn’t mean lowering the bar—as long as the bar is at the level expected by the state, not a bar set at an extra-high level because teachers believe they are teaching a grade much higher than the one they actually teach.

This whole discussion about grading and assessment is a thorny one, and most of us are still struggling to find the answers. As we search for solutions and try to reach a shared understanding, it’s essential that teachers talk with one another and with administrators about practices and expectations. What grades are needed to provide an accurate and reasonable picture of a student’s learning? What do we want our gradebooks to communicate? What are the standards to which we intend to hold our students accountable? How are we measuring progress toward those standards? What is acceptable evidence of mastery? What role does daily work play in the gradebook?  What does an A mean? What does a C mean? How are we encouraging our students to become learners rather than performers and completers? What legacy practices are we holding onto that violate what we claim to believe about assessment?

Assessment that is not meaningful is a waste of effort for students and a waste of time for teachers. And discussion about failure rates is only meaningful when teachers, parents, administrators, and students understand what passing and failing truly mean and when teachers focus on learning goals instead of compliance.

Revisiting Oz

Revisiting Oz:  Finding the Sweet Spot for Struggle

Years ago, I attended a late-night showing of the classic 1939 film adaptation of The Wizard of Oz at a movie theater in Austin, Texas. My most vivid memory of the experience occurred during the final minutes of the screening.

You’ve probably seen this movie, but in case you need a refresher, I’m talking about the part where Dorothy has accomplished her mission by melting the evil witch and has returned to Oz to let the wizard know that he can now send her back home to the black-and-white but considerably safer world of Kansas. When the wizard proves to be bogus and reneges on his promise, Dorothy is nearly inconsolable. Just as things seem completely hopeless, suddenly the familiar pink bubble floats down from the sky, signaling the return of Glinda, the Good Witch of the North. Looking like a living blob of cotton candy, Glinda, waving her wand erratically, glides over to Dorothy, who approaches her in a state of panic.

       

“Oh, will you help me? Can you help me?” Dorothy cries breathlessly.

Glinda the Good smiles at Dorothy--as if unaware of all the poor girl has gone through since the two last chatted--and says in her sing-song voice, “You don’t need to be helped any longer. You’ve always had the power to go back to Kansas.”

To my surprise, at this point during my movie-viewing experience, the audience burst into a unified “boo,” and several people shouted out expletives directed toward Glinda.

I thought the unexpected audience reaction was hilarious. It had never occurred to me to question or judge Glinda’s assistance, but it does seem like this so-called “good” witch is a bit cavalier about the entire situation and ought to be brought up on reckless endangerment charges or at least forced to pay for Dorothy’s future therapy bills.  

Looking back at this scene today, I’m struck with several thoughts related to the work we do as students struggle in school. The extent to which we let students struggle is a tricky balancing act. In our attempts to find the sweet spot of struggle, we move between several extremes.

Scenario One:  If We Only Had a Heart

When Glinda shares with Dorothy that she possessed the power to go home all along, the scarecrow, horrified, asks her, “Why didn’t you tell her before?”

Glinda replies placidly, “Because she wouldn’t have believed me. She had to learn it for herself.”

           

That response could be interpreted in a few ways. On one extreme, we can view Glinda as a hard-nosed stickler who was teaching Dorothy a valuable lesson. By leaving Dorothy to her own devices to walk great distances in sparkly high-heeled shoes (those didn’t look like slippers to me) and battle an evil green nemesis who tried to kill her by fire, deadly poppies, and flying monkey attack, the good witch was simply toughening Dorothy up, allowing the young girl to face the hardships of life and, hopefully, learn from them.

There are times as teachers when we move to this extreme. If you’ve ever caught yourself assigning work “because it’s good for the kids” or withholding clemency  “because they need to learn that life is tough,” then you are guilty of this.

           

The only reason for assigning work--classwork or homework--is because it’s necessary for students to master the objectives of the course. If that’s not the case, we try to justify our barbarity to ourselves by saying we are making our class more rigorous when we are actually just subjecting our students to cruelty.

           

There’s no need for teachers to teach students the lesson that life is hard. If they haven’t learned that already, life will provide plenty of opportunities for them to learn that in the future. The “life is tough” objective is not in our state standards. I looked.

Dorothy lived on a farm in Kansas during the Great Depression and didn’t have parents. I’m pretty sure she knew that life isn’t easy. She didn’t need a woman with a high pitched voice and a crown to help her learn that.

Sometimes we have to step back from our rigid ways and reclaim the heart of teaching, remembering that we’re here for the kids and should help them succeed rather than making them appreciate everywhere else that’s not school.

Scenario Two:  If We Only Had a Brain

On the other end of the spectrum, we can view Glinda as someone who made Dorothy suffer unnecessarily (and smiled about it after the fact). Our inclination is to rescue the Dorothys of the world so they don’t have to struggle.

If you’ve been teaching for more than a day, you’re well aware of the phenomenon of the helicopter parent, the one who swoops in to save their child before the child has any opportunity to struggle and problem-solve for him or herself. These rescue attempts come from a good place: the heart. Parents love and care for their kids and want to give them all the support they’re able to provide.  

Sometimes, we are guilty of same thing as teachers.

When we enter helicopter teacher mode, we look at our students as poor, fragile souls who deserve pity and constant rescue. We coddle and give thousands of second chances (which are actually third, fourth, fifth chances, etc.). We hesitate to ask students to step outside their comfort zones and try things on their own because we are concerned about how they might react if they are not successful. Again, all of this comes from that good place; we have the heart to make each student feel safe in a world that often seems dangerous and daunting.  

If we step back for a second and use our brains, however, we see that this rescue mentality stunts growth in whatever areas we are assisting students. By saving students when they forget something, we hinder the development of responsibility. Solving problems for them prevents young people from growing the capacity to problem-solve on their own. And shielding students from opportunities to speak publicly, answer questions aloud, and wrestle with a difficult intellectual task keeps them at their current level of competence perpetually.

Scenario Three: If We Have the Courage

While I think Glinda the Good Witch was a little too hands-off in her approach to Dorothy’s lesson-learning, Dorothy did learn some good skills during her journey. Was Dorothy’s assistance-free struggle worth it? Or should Glinda have just sent the poor girl home from the outset of the story and saved her from the difficulty? The sweet spot for struggle lies somewhere between the two extremes.

In our classrooms, the best thing we can do is allow students to struggle with a safety net and visible assistance at the ready when students falter. We have to have the courage to let go of our tendencies--whether it’s to teach a harsh life lesson or to circle the helicopters for rescue before a struggle occurs--and become what Jessica Lahey, author of The Gift of Failure, calls “autonomy-supportive” educators.

In her book, Lahey is writing on the subject of parenting, but what she says still has relevance for our lives in the classroom. When we support our students’ autonomy, we develop a true growth mindset for ourselves and for those we teach. Lahey offers some parenting tips that translate well into teacher practices:

• Encourage from the sidelines.
• Praise students for their effort, not for their inherent qualities.
• Make sure your students know you like them, regardless of their success or failure.
• Allow for mistakes but guide students to learn from them.  
• Value mistakes as much as successes.
• Support students’ feelings of frustration and disappointment.
• Allow students a chance to struggle with a problem before you provide solutions or answers. Talk with them about how they’re solving the problem and guide them to find a solution through questioning.  
• Don’t offer extrinsic motivators in exchange for behaviors.
• Don’t overwhelm students with unsolicited advice and direction (we see it as “helping;” they see it as nagging).
• Give feedback--and give it in the moment when students need it.

I’ll return to the topic of feedback in a future blog because I think it’s such a vital part of what we do as educators.

Providing thoughtful assistance at the moment when students need it is the best way to guide them to success. If Glinda had loaded Dorothy with tons of advice on the start of her journey, that advice would likely have fallen on unreceptive ears since Dorothy--like many teens--wouldn’t have viewed the advice as meaningful at the time. On the other hand, if Glinda had waited until the end to point out everything Dorothy did wrong (like we do when we offer exhaustive feedback on a paper after the grade is in the gradebook and the student can do nothing about it), she would deserve to be booed by audiences. If only Glinda had popped in for a coaching conference with Dorothy at several stages along the journey, the young girl would have felt more confident, could have developed a more thoughtful strategy for success, and probably wouldn’t have done so much shrieking and crying.  

It takes an act of courage for us to let go of our long-entrenched practices to do what research tells us is best for our students. Finding that sweet spot for struggle isn’t easy. For many, becoming autonomy-supportive will require that courage, as well as some heart work and some brain work.