I haven’t needed rules this year.

After all, I teach AP English and Advisory 12. It’s been really easy. I think I’ve had two (somewhat) challenging moments with classroom management this year. Maybe one.

This is how it should be. After all, there’s a lot of work to do. I’m a good person, and my students are good people, and we don’t have time to waste on silliness.

Last year, however, didn’t work that way. It was my worst year (even harder than my first!), and it nearly made me leave teaching.

I remember floundering last year, trying to figure out what was going wrong, wondering whether I was too weak and what I needed to change. I sought help from colleagues and in books, and one key piece of advice I received was that I needed more consistent rules and consequences. But no matter how much I tried to implement a plan, nothing worked.

And now I know why.

It’s because rules and consequences are silly. It’s because they focus on control and punishment. It’s because they don’t center on learning.

The best classrooms have rules, of course, but if you ask the students what they are, they don’t really know. It’s because the teacher mentioned them on the first day and then didn’t need them afterward. It’s because the students check their own behavior and check each other. And it’s because everyone knows they’re valued, loved, and respected as learners and as people.

In the best classrooms, values and expectations are more important than rules. What is demonstrated is more important than what is said.

Nevertheless, when I need rules again — perhaps next year — I’ve come up with what I think is a good working list. Here they are:

1. Work hard.

2. Be respectful.

3. Have integrity.

You’ll notice that they aren’t really rules. But I like them, and I think they cover everything. If my students and I can follow them, we’ll all be all right. 

 There’s a lot of talk in education about the achievement gap.

Before we deal with the achievement gap, however, we need to deal with the expectations gap. In short, teachers and students need to agree on what’s possible and what’s essential.

A few anecdotes from today:

• A student is not silent during a warm-up activity. In our private conversation afterward, the student says she understands my expectation. But she also says (1) she wasn’t speaking loudly, (2) she wasn’t hurting anyone, (3) she didn’t agree with my expectation.

• A student tells my colleague that it’s “impossible” to write three short paragraphs in 15 minutes.

• A student, in serious danger of not graduating in June, doesn’t believe me when I tell her she must attend an activity that would offer her credit. “It won’t hurt me,” she says. “I can make it up.”

In all these stories, the student disagreed with the teacher on expectations, about what’s necessary to achieve — and about what’s good enough.

Before learning can happen, everybody has to be on the same page.

In my experience, a huge part of teaching is about building trust and relationship so that students believe me. After all, too many students — especially students of color —  have had too many negative experiences with teachers — especially white teachers.

One of my biggest challenges is convincing students that I’m on their side. I might believe I’m on their side, and I might say it, and I might act on it. But my students must feel it.

They must feel that meeting my standard is possible and that it’s valuable — that it’s worth it. 

 As a teacher, it’s important to see patterns in academic behavior so that I can support students who are struggling.

But today I made a big mistake. I assumed something bad about a student and let my brain make negative conclusions.

I’ve been working pretty hard with this student since August to build a relationship, develop trust, and encourage her to seek support and not to give up. We’ve been making a lot of progress — until today.

It’s her day to see her grammar coach at lunch. Last Wednesday, my student missed her appointment because she was finishing up college applications. When I reminded her, my student said, “Oh no. I have so many things to do today.” My response was: “You made a commitment, so you need to be there.”

I was sure that my student would honor her appointment, but when her time came, I could not find her. Instantly, familiar defensive and angry feelings came up. How dare she miss her appointment right after I told her to show up! What’s her problem? Instead of remembering the progress my student has made, and instead of trusting the relationship we’ve forged, I immediately got mad.

Then I saw her printing out her essay in the corner of the room.

I breathed deeply, and I noticed my big mistake. Even though she knew nothing of my negative thoughts, I approached my student and told her that I believe in her and that I will always trust her.

This incident is a big wake-up call. Indeed, students have let me (and themselves) down many times, and as many times I’ve seen growth, I see regression. Still, that does not mean that I can jump to negative conclusions.

I am too quick to judge.

If I’m truly fighting against the predictability of student failure, I must fight against my own predictable thoughts of student failure. If I ask my students to believe in themselves and their ability to achieve, I must believe in them, too. 

 Maybe my students think I’m crazy.

“No, really,” I say. “If you’re ever not in class, you have to tell me. You have to text me.”

For some students, this seems like a reasonable request. Mr. Isero expects me to be in class, so if I’m absent or late, I should let him know why.

Other students, however, need convincing. This means reminders, second chances, interventions, consequences, and stern talkings-to. This also means clearly explaining to my students, sometimes repeatedly, that I care about them and their education.

Since I implemented my new you-have-to-text-me policy last year, student attendance has been way up. Most impressive is that tardies have plummeted.

I think it’s been working because every attendance event is something to talk about. When students are absent or late and don’t send me a text, they know I’ll follow up to question their character and to reiterate my interest in their success.

On the other hand, when students do in fact text me, they’re acknowledging that they’re missing something valuable. Yes, the text is quick, but it says, I know you notice me. 

 I just read “The Most Racist Thing That Ever Happened to Me” in The Atlantic. In the article, Touré shares stories of discrimination by prominent African Americans that shaped their lives.

I was struck by the following quotation by Yale professor Elizabeth Alexander:

The most racist thing that every happened to me would likely be a continual underestimation of my intellectual ability and capacity, and the real insidious aspect of that kind of racism is that we don’t know half the time when people are underestimating us. We don’t know half the time when we’re being cut out of something because someone is unable to see us at full capacity.

White teachers do this all the time. Perhaps the worst way that we do it is by giving disingenuous, over-the-top praise to students of color for above-average performance.

In our attempt to be encouraging, we see a student of color who does well in school, and instead of telling them the truth about their specific strengths and weaknesses, instead of pushing them, too many of us treat the student as if they’re infallible.

In our attempt to deal with white guilt, we heighten the pitch in our voice, we say things like “amazing,” our smiles get wide and toothy.

In our attempt not to be racist, we’re racist, and we’re creating for our students a very scary possibility.

If our students believe us, there is a good chance they’ll progress through school getting good grades with mediocre skills.

Then, when a teacher challenges the student, or says his or her skills need improvement, it’s easy to give up.

I’m trying to combat this dynamic in my English class this year. Some students, familiar with success, are frustrated because their essay grades haven’t increased quickly enough. My job is to keep them engaged while still telling them the truth.