A few years ago, I attended a training called Coaching for Educational Equity. During this four-day conference, the 40 or so participants discussed inequitable school systems and strategies to interrupt and transform them to support all students. To maximize the impact of this conference, we were all asked to stay at the hotel that was hosting our work, a former lodge repurposed into a hotel.
Days before the conference, I purchased my first iPhone from the Apple Store and was in love with my new gadget. Since this was my first smartphone, I was in a learning curve when it came to my device.
One evening, I returned to my room and plugged my phone in to recharge. I noticed an hour later it wasn’t recharging. I wiggled the power cord connected to the phone and saw the familiar lightning bolt indicating power flow. All was well, so I went to bed.
In the morning, I woke up to discover my phone uncharged. My first solution was to shake the cord again, but nothing happened. Frustrated, I ramped up my interventions: I shook the phone. No response. I checked the power cord connected to the phone. It was in. I checked the settings and different screens, and still nothing.
Obviously, there was something wrong with this new phone that I had just purchased.
Panicked, I formed plans: First, take the phone back to the Apple Store. Someone at the Genius Bar would fix it, or would they? Was there a place closer to my hotel that I could take the phone? I didn’t purchase any phone insurance, but maybe if there were something wrong with it, they would replace the entire unit because it was new?
I was amazed at the speed these solutions filled my head.
Needing to leave for the first session of the day, I reached behind the nightstand to unplug the phone from the wall, only to discover the real problem. The plug had fallen out of the outlet.
I sat on the bed amazed and thought: How quick was I to blame my phone for not recharging itself? How quickly did I grow frustrated when the solution, most obvious to me, didn’t work? How many solutions did I create in my head to address the issue, none of which would have even worked to solve it? How long did it take before I saw the true issue?
The connection with the equity training I’d been attending happened swiftly and spontaneously as more questions flooded my mind.
How many times did I blame my students for not engaging in my lessons, my classroom or our school? How many strategies and solutions had I tried in my teaching that centered solely on fixing the student? How many times did I blame their families for not attending school functions, showing up for conferences or appearing disengaged? How many times would I keep on making the same mistakes, expecting different results?
It became clear that my first responsibility was making sure that my students were plugged in to my classroom, our learning community and the school and system at large.
It starts directly with me: establishing meaningful relationships with each student, making my content relevant to their lives, speaking against systemic issues that prevent all families from having access to the schools and building systems that include everyone.
Then, and only then, can significant learning occur. Then, and only then, will learning charge up my students.
Hiller is a mentor to first- and second-year teachers in Oregon and a member of the Teaching Tolerance Advisory Board.
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