Why bullies bully

“Most people are bullied because they’re better than the people who bully them.” - Simon Cowell

A reader sent me this quote by Cowell, who judges singing shows on television. Except for clips on YouTube, I haven’t watched a singing show since the first season of American Idol back in 2002, but I remember Cowell as being someone I liked a lot.

Brutally honest. Exceedingly direct. Funny. Utterly unconcerned about what others thought of him.

My kind of guy.

And I like this quote about bullying a lot. I think bullying can also be about the consolidation of power, the need to elevate oneself, and the inability to understand the struggle of others, but I think Cowell’s statement is often true.

I also think it’s a very good thing for the victims of bullying to hear.


Sometimes the answer is exactly wrong in every possible way

In the midst of my math lesson yesterday, I leaned over and switched on the document camera. This is a device that has replaced the overhead projectors of my childhood. Place a document or object of any kind under the camera, and the image will appear on the Smartboard.

A very useful tool in the education field.

I looked to the screen. Instead of the document, a large, black box was displayed on the screen.

I turned to my class and said, “When a device like my document camera - or any electronic device - doesn’t work properly, what’s the first thing I should do?”

I ask this question because I want to teach my students that the first and most likely solution to a problem like this is to restart the device.

Turn it off, then turn it back on.

I want them to know this because I can’t tell you how many times an adult asks me to solve a problem related to technology only to watch me close and re-open their app, restart their computer, or turn their toaster off and on. It’s the simplest solution to so many problems, and yet so many people miss this obvious step.

I want my students to be better prepared than most.

Having posed the question, I looked to my class, waiting for an answer. None came. The students stared back at me, blankly and confused, so I asked again. “When something like my document camera isn’t working, what’s the very first thing I should do?”

I waited again. At last a hand rose slowly into the air.

“Yes?” I said, pointing at my student. “What should you do in a situation like this?”

“Panic?” my student said.

I have a lot of work ahead of me.


Tell that kid that he sucks.

While playing golf, one of my friends explained that years ago, when he and his friends played golf together, they had a rule:

If you don’t hit your tee shot past the lady’s tees, you have to play with a pink ball for the rest of the round.

“That wouldn’t be consider very woke by today’s standards,” I said.

Another guy - a middle school teacher who had joined us for the round, said, “I have a student who told me that if you say that you’re woke, then you’re not woke.”

“Really?” I said, seething. There are few things I despise more than assumed authority. “Do me a favor. When you see that student in the fall, please tell him that anyone who has decided that they are the arbiter of wokeness is just a stupid, arrogant, useless jackass. A real waste of a human being. Okay?”

“I understand your point, but I might not use that exact language,” he said, a little taken aback.

I was surprised.

Why teach middle school if you can’t speak directly and honestly to those little monsters? Someone needs to tell them how terrible they are. Right?


The last day of school suddenly became very interesting

The last day of a school year can be a strange day for both teachers and students.

On the one hand, it’s a celebration. Students and teachers looking ahead at long, lazy summer days. But it’s also bittersweet for most of us. A breaking of a family that will never be whole again.

For my students, the last day of school also signals a momentous step forward to middle school. They are departing a place that has kept them safe and happy for six years.

For some students, it’s smiles and excitement.

For many, it’s sadness and tears.

As a teacher, I find myself wondering if I’ve done enough. Have I prepared them well enough for their middle school adventure? Are they ready to take on new challenges?

I worry about my kids. I can’t help it.

I found myself worrying a lot on Friday. It was the last day of school, and my students weren’t exactly being their best selves. As I tried to read to them, they were chatty and distracted. A couple of them made some poor choices as the day wore on. As I tried to make the most of our final hours together, I felt like some of my kids were doing the opposite.

It was frustrating and sad. And I worried. Are they behaving like this because I didn’t do enough?

A few hours later Elysha and I having dinner together on the patio of a local restaurant, talking about how challenging my day was, when the server arrived at my table and said, “Mr. Dicks?”

I looked up. Standing in front of me was a tall, young man who I didn’t recognize. He was smiling.

I stood up. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Who are you?”

“It’s me,” he said. Then he told me his name. I couldn’t believe it.

Had you asked me before this moment to name the student who I worried about the most in my teaching career, this young man would’ve been on my short list. Maybe at the top of my short list.

I had taught this boy 14 years ago when he was a much smaller third grader. He was a smart boy back then, but he was challenging to say the least. For a multitude of reasons, his path did not seem very bright. I had thought about him many times over the years, and my heart was always filled with worry.

A couple years ago, I had even tried to find him online without success. A few mentions of a high school football career but nothing more.

Now he was standing before me.

We embraced. I asked him how he was doing. He told me that he’d just completed his junior year in college. Preparing to begin his senior year in September. Working his butt off this summer to save money.

College. I couldn’t believe it.

Near the end of the meal, when he brought me the check, he asked if I’m still teaching Shakespeare to kids. I told him I was. “The kids performed Macbeth this year.”

Then he quoted me a few lines from the play he had performed when he was a kid. The Taming of the Shrew. He even threw in a couple of lines from Macbeth that he had remembered for good measure.

Then he told me that he’s still playing chess, a game I had taught him when he was a boy.

I couldn’t believe it. All that worrying had been for naught. He had overcome his struggles and found success. He was on the path to a good career and a great life.

I was so happy for him. So relieved.

Sometimes, in a moment of great need, as you’re worrying that you haven’t done enough for your students, the universe can be very kind to you.

That was the case for me last Friday. That young man arrived exactly when I needed him most.

I still can’t believe it.


Attendance weirdos

When I was growing up, teachers would take attendance by calling your name.

Students would either raise their hand when their name was called or audibly respond to indicate that they had arrived safely.

When responding audibly, the vast majority of us would use the word “Here!”

On rare occasions, you’d might find yourself in a classroom with a student who instead responded with the word, “Present!”

I always thought the kids who responded with the word “Present!” had something wrong with them,

I still do.


My students are ruining my chances at greatness

A 2017 study found that working near people who are good at their job makes you more effective at yours.

Sitting within 25 feet of a high performer at work improved a given worker’s performance by 15 percent, while sitting within 25 feet of a low performer hurt their performance by 30 percent. 

Role models, it would appear, are very important.

But what does this mean for me?

I’m a man who spends his workday within 25 feet of two dozen fifth graders at almost all times.

Two dozen 10 year-old children who can sometimes perform at a high level but can also spend enormous amounts of time staring out windows, watching pencils roll down their desks, and doodling the image of a pig’s head hundreds of times on dozens of post-it notes.

These are kids who jam important papers into the far reaches of their desk never to be seen again, somehow lose library books on the 50 foot walk from library to classroom, and can struggle getting water from the drinking fountain to their mouth without somehow making a puddle on the floor.

Even when they’re performing at their highest level, it’s not like our optimal levels are commensurate in any way.

I’m worried. I think my students are bringing me down. Hurting my chances at future success. Decreasing my productivity.

And this has been going on for two decades…

I deserve hazard pay.

Just imagine what I could’ve been if not burdened by hundreds of inefficient, disorganized, distraction monsters over the years.


Why you should not complain about the common core

Occasionally I will meet an adult who has somehow been convinced that America’s “common core” curriculum is rubbish. They look at the way that their child is solving a math problem, fail to comprehend the method or rationale that their child is using, and therefore assume it’s stupid.

It’s more than likely that the adult in question is stupid. At least in that particular moment.

In defense of the common core, I always say the following:

First, the curriculum that you were taught was different than your parents’ curriculum, too. And your parent’s curriculum was different than their parents’ curriculum. Curriculum is constantly evolving. Always changing. The previous generations of Americans were simply smart enough to avoid politicizing something that is better left to the experts.

They didn’t allow idiot pundits to change their mind about something they know almost nothing about.

So shut up about the way you were taught to do things. Your parents probably thought the same thing about the work you were doing in school. It didn’t make sense to them, either. They simply weren’t arrogant jackasses about it.

Then I write a problem like this down and ask the person to solve it.

- 387

I have yet to meet a person who does not regroup (or borrow) in order to solve this problem.

Teachers don’t like to use the word “borrow” in math these days because borrowing implies an eventual return of the borrowed item, which never happens in problems like these. When you “borrow” a number to subtract, it never goes back to its original place. It can therefore be confusing to some kids given the definition of “borrow,” but I have met adults who are angry over this simple, logical shift in terminology.

I just assume that these folks have far deeper issues related to self-worth.

Once the person is done solving the problem, I ask why they regrouped.

Answers vary, but it essentially comes down to one of two things:

I was taught that way, or you have to regroup (or borrow) to solve the problem.

Then I show them how to solve without regrouping. I explain that if you understand negative numbers, this problem becomes rather simple. No pencil and paper required. Instead of regrouping (or borrowing), simply think of the problem as


Or 200 - 20 - 5 = 175

I might have also solved the problem using rounding to change the problem to 562 - 400 + 13.

Also simple.

Thanks to my understanding of what lies behind the simple algorithms, I can solve problems like these almost instantly in my head. So can many of my students.

But when these same students go home and try to explain these concepts to close-minded parents who are either upset that they don’t understand the math or have been convinced by a politician that this new common core is bad, things don’t go well.

They become angry.

They can’t understand why their child isn’t just borrowing from the hundreds and the tens. They blame the curriculum when the real problem is that they can accurately solve a math problem but don’t understand why their solution works.

It’s understanding the why that leads to a career in the STEM fields.

It’s the why that turns children into future scientists, engineers, astronauts, programmers, biotech researchers, financial analysts, actuaries, and more.

Before you become upset that your child’s curriculum makes no sense to you, try to remember that this is nothing new. You’re not special. Curriculum has been evolving for as long as education was formalized in a school setting, and it will continue to evolve.

Americans of the past simply trusted the experts, avoided leaping to conclusions, asked good questions, and didn’t allow politicians and pundits to dictate their opinions.

common core.jpeg

Dane Best: Child hero

Dane Best, age 9, ended the ban on snowball fights in his hometown of Severance, Colorado last week. After discovering the 100 year old law during a field trip to town hall, the young activist went to work, lobbying successfully to have a law banning snow balls repealed.

Best told the town board that if he was victorious, his first act would be to lob a snowball at his four year-old brother.

I like this kid.

I also like it when the world gets slightly more dangerous for children.

When I was a kid, we routinely threw snowballs at each other at recess. We brought sleds and saucers to school and raced down hills at dangerous speeds. We played street hockey with wooden sticks and hardened pucks. Played dodgeball against a brick wall with a racquetball. Leapt off enormous snowbanks into piles of snow.

It was wonderful way to grow up.

Not all that long ago, my students and I would carve out chutes in the snowbanks at my school to increase their speed as I flung them down the backside of those hills towards the forest. Grabbing them by the hands, I would catapult them with all my might down those chutes as they screamed in delight.

It was such fun. Joyous, even. Kids slid and tumbled and giggled. Cheeks turned red. Pants got soaked. Snow ended up stuffed in their socks and ears.

Eventually the snowbanks were deemed too dangerous to climb, even though I cannot recall a single serious injury occurring while playing on these snowbanks.

The possibility of injury was more than enough to end the fun.

A few weeks ago, my own children asked me if they could play outside. “Yes!” I shouted. “Go find some trouble!”

The kids ran outside, completely and gloriously unsupervised. A few minutes later, my neighbor knocked on my door. He wanted me to know that he was doing some yard work and would keep an eye on my kids.

“No!” I said. “Don’t watch them. I want them to find some trouble. I want a hungry bear to wander into the yard or truck filled with dangerous chemicals to overturn beside them. I want them to face something hard and scary and fun.”

Thank goodness for kids like Dane Best, who are fighting for the right to be pummeled by snowballs on a crisp, winter day.


Batman is depressed. Also, you are bad or good depending on how you eat your lunch.

One of the great benefits of teaching is the conversations that you have with children.

A child at recess today showed me her “secret hideout” for drawing pictures.

“Only villains have secret hideouts,” I said. “You must be a villain.”

“What about Batman?” the girl countered. “He has a hideout.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But isn’t he a little bit bad, too? Almost a villain?”

A girl who had been listening to this exchange jumped in. “No,” she said. “Batman’s just depressed, which makes sense. He watched his parents die, his only friend is an old British man, and the bad guys are always trying to kill his girlfriend. Also he dressed like a bat, but that might be because he’s depressed.”

Pretty astute, I thought.

A little while later I saw one of my students trying to sneak up behind me, probably with the intent to startle me.

I’m exceptionally easily to startle thanks to decades of PTSD, and some of my students have figured it out.

“Are you being bad?” I asked.

“I’m not bad,” he said, looking a little startled himself. “I eat my sandwich first, and then I eat my dessert.”

He was serious, too. The definition of goodness. Sandwich first. Dessert second.

That, my friends, is the wisdom of youth.

It’s also a very low bar for good vs. evil. A frighteningly low bar.


Many jobs with one important thing in common

It's been a strange and busy weekend for me.

On Friday night, my wife Elysha and I produced an unforgettable Speak Up storytelling event at Infinity Hall in Hartford. Our near-sellout audience enjoyed what might have been our best show ever, headlined by United States Senator Chris Murphy who told a fantastic story about an embarrassing moment he experienced while serving as an intern for Senator Chris Dodd. 

In addition to producing the show, I told a brand new story about one of my most embarrassing and shameful parenting moments ever.

On Saturday my DJ partner, Bengi, and I worked our last wedding of 2018 at the Webb Barn in Wethersfield. I coordinated their ceremony and reception, served as emcee for much of the evening, and played music for a bunch of happy and excited guests.  

On Sunday I traveled to Groton, MA to serve as minister at the First Parish Church of Groton while their full time minister was on vacation. In addition to delivering a sermon on faith, I also delivered a children's sermon, read poems and prayers (one that I wrote myself) from the pulpit, led the congregation in song, and even pulled the enormous cord that rang the church's famed Paul Revere bell, calling all to the service. 

I did everything a minister would do with a little help from the worship coordinator and musical director.

After lunch with the parishioners, I taught a storytelling workshop to interested members and some folks from the community before heading home and discovering that the DVR failed to record the Patriots game.

Quite the weekend. 

It seems like an bizarre combination of roles to jam into a three day period - storyteller, producer, wedding DJ, minister, teacher - but in truth, all of these roles rely on the ability to communicate effectively to a large group of people. The jobs may have been different, but in each case, the skill set required was essentially the same.

Speak. Connect. Engage. Entertain.  

I say in the last chapter of my book, Storyworthy: Engage, Teach, Persuade, and Change Your Life Through the Power of Storytelling, that storytelling is a super power, and I wasn't kidding. Being able to tell a good story and engage an audience can open up all kinds of doors for you.

It can be the difference between being heard and remaining silent.

This weekend it meant sharing a stage with a US Senator, dancing the night away with a couple on their wedding day, and climbing the pulpit to tell a story and deliver a message on the age old struggle for faith.  

I was also able to help six other storytellers tell their best stories on their biggest stage of their lives and teach a group of folks in a church basement how to begin their own journey into storytelling.

Learn to tell great stories. It truly is a super power. You never know what doors it may open for you.

My children show me a world I often fail to see

One of my favorite thing about kids - mine as well as other people’s children - is how often I see the world in a new way through their innocent, creative, untainted eyes.

Like this. Who know raspberries could be so versatile? So decorative?

I’ve always thought of raspberries as a nonsense fruit. They last about 19 minutes before going squishy and gross. They have a ridiculous P in the spelling of their name. And they are the only fruit that must sit atop a diaper in their plastic container.

Following my children’s lead, I placed raspberries on my fingers (slightly harder given the size of my fingers) and never enjoyed eating raspberries so much.

Find a kid. See the world differently. Embrace it. Indulge.

Never trust alliteration

Elysha is looking for a teaching job for the first time in 9 years. Now that the kids are off to school and settled into their routines, it's time for her to return to the classroom.

Recently, she was looking at a school district that expects classroom instruction to be "rigorous, relevant, and respectful."

Excellent standards for instruction, but one problem:

I don't trust alliteration when it comes to policy. I will never understand the need for schools, teachers, principals, and other educational leaders to constantly use alliteration when setting forth standards. I don't understand how alliteration makes a set of standards, expectations, goals, or the like any better or more memorable. I can't understand know how or why a stylistic literary device, most often used in poetry and verse, has somehow crept into into policy and procedural standards. 

I have attended meetings where valuable time has been spent trying to wedge a set of standards into a list of words that all begin with the same letter. Conversations that go something like this:

Educator A: "So we all agree. The content of this unit should be timely, topical, and culturally diverse."

Educator B: "Sure, but can we find a way of saying that diversity part with the letter T? Maybe... treats everyone equally? Or tolerant? How about timely, topical, and tolerant. Or tolerance centered? Tolerance focused? Tolerating tolerance? Yeah, that's two T words! Timely, topical, and tolerating tolerance!"

I'm not kidding. I've watched this insanity in action. Many times. 

I'm not saying that "rigorous, relevant, and respectful" are not excellent standards for instruction. I just can't help but wonder what standard might have been left off the list because it didn't begin with the letter R.

Or which of these R words were added simply because when someone was brainstorming a set of standards, the unconscious desire for alliteration took hold. 

Or if one of these standards isn't needed or isn't nearly as important, but the desire for alliteration altered the policy of an entire school district and the means by which thousands of children will be instructed.  

Never trust alliteration. It's a signal of vocabulary manipulation that is never required and often less clear and less precise than the original, less alliterative list. 


"Lockdown Lockdown" should not need to be a song.

I was student-teaching when the Columbine massacre occurred in April of 1999. I remember sitting with fourth graders on the morning after the shooting, listening to them talk about everything they had seen on television. 

It was unimaginable. 

Then, seemingly overnight, it became all too imaginable as school shootings, especially those involving mass casualties, became all too common in this country, and educators were forced to grapple with the notion that someday, we might be forced to make life-and-death decisions to protect our students. 

I saw this photograph on the internet yesterday and wondered how many future educators are deciding on other professions because posters like this are now necessary in elementary school classrooms. 

I wondered how safe our children really feel when they are forced to sing-song the steps to a lockdown drill. 

I wondered when lawmakers will finally place the safety of students ahead of politics, elections, and campaign donations. 

I wondered if there will ever be a day when a poster like this is no longer necessary in an American classroom.  

I really hope so. 


Morning conversation scares me.

First words from my daughter today:

"Daddy, I noticed the word repair on a bottle next to your bed. Did you know that the r is an r- control syllable exception because the r is supposed to say 'er,' but in this case, it sounds like 'air.' Neat. Huh?"

I'm not sure which is more disconcerting:

That these are the kinds of things that Clara says to me every morning, or that I'm an elementary school teacher and have no idea what the hell she is talking about. 


A former student's advice on avoiding procrastination

A former student visited my class last month to offer advice to my fifth graders as they prepare to embark on their journey to middle school.

His advice was fascinating:

In order to avoid procrastination, fill your life with after-school activities. Do as much as possible. Sports, drama, student government... anything and everything. Pack your day with excitement and adventure.

In this way, he explained, your time to complete homework and study will be limited. You'll have very specific and defined times each day when you can get your work done, and as a result, you will be forced to do your homework and studying during those times.

My former student's message is this:

When we have large amounts of free time available to us, we procrastinate. If we eliminate or restrict the amount of free time we have each day, we'll have no choice but to use that free time wisely. 

Kind of brilliant. Right?


Snow days: One thing I love. One thing I hate.

I'm an elementary school teacher, and today I am home because of snow. 

One thing I love about snow days and one thing I hate:

Many (and maybe most) teachers despise snow days, fully aware of the long, summer days that each snow day costs them. Many parents despise snow days for this same reason, and also because of the childcare headaches that a snow day creates.  

I understand all of this.

I, however, adore snow days. I love them so very much. This is because I think it is short-sighted, presumptuous, and foolish to assume that you will be alive in June to enjoy your long, summer day, so I believe in taking my days whenever I can get them.

I'm serious. And I'm a guy who has been brought back to life twice via CPR. I know what I'm taking about. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow. I'll take today and happily teach for one more day in June. 

snow day.jpg

One thing I hate about snow days:

I despise any human being who criticizes a school district, superintendent, or school official for the decision to declare a snow day.

Yes, sometimes they get it wrong. They make an incorrect decision. They cancel school when it could've clearly been in session. But it's weather, damn it. I don't know if you've noticed, but it's highly unpredictable.

Even the meteorologists get a wrong sometimes. 

These armchair school administrators are truly the worst. Jackasses who love to make important decisions with no accountability and so often well after the storm is out to sea.   

School officials are simply trying to keep children safe. Children who walk to school and ride buses and stand on the corners of busy intersections, waiting for buses to arrive. 

Excuse them for mistakenly erring on the side of caution. Pardon them for worry about the lives of little kids. Forgive them if the storm didn't arrive early enough or unexpectedly weakened or shifted east and missed us entirely. 

As a parent, I choose caution over inconvenience every time. 


They couldn't play tic-tac-toe because of bandwidth.

Yes, this is absolutely the worst game of tic-tac-toe every played. The fact that this all happens in front of thousands of people is even more embarrassing. 

But it's also an outstanding demonstration on the nature of bandwidth. 

Every human being has a certain amount of bandwidth available to them at one time. Some people can simply process input in greater quantities than others. 

The amount of input that you process at any one time is the measure of your bandwidth. 

Bandwidth is also context dependent. When I started playing golf, for example, all of my bandwidth was used on striking the ball with the head of the club. It needed to be in order to make contact. As I became a more experienced (but still terrible) golfer, I was able to use less and less bandwidth to hit the ball and began to incorporate other elements of the game into my thinking. Grip. Posture. Wind. Elevation. Contours of the course. 

The more experience a person has with a task, the better the chance of processing more input. 

I see this in new teachers all the time. While they are focused on delivering their lesson, they often fail to notice student behaviors that are as clear as day to me (and will hopefully one day will be to them). Once they become more confident and proficient in delivering content to students, more of their bandwidth will be freed up for other processes. 

As a storyteller, I am often changing and manipulating aspects of my story onstage. I can punch up the humor in a story if an audience is responding well or circle back on a part of the story that seemed to require more attention. I oftentimes find new and better endings to stories while performing. A memory will suddenly occur to me. A new collection of sentences will enter my mind. A divergent path to the conclusion will reveal itself to me in the process of telling the story and I'll manage to execute some verbal gymnastics in order to get there.

Twice in my life Elysha has accused me of holding back a great ending to a story in order to surprise her onstage. But neither time was it true. I simply realized onstage that there was a better, smarter place to end.     

But for my storytelling students, I would never advise this course of action. I tell them to take the stage with a plan and stick to it. I have the benefit of greater bandwidth onstage.

  • I'm never nervous.
  • I've performed hundreds of times in front of audiences of all sizes and in theaters, bars, libraries, auditoriums, bookstores, churches, and synagogues of all sizes and types.  
  • I've crafted and told more than 120 stories in my seven year storytelling career. I have a familiarity and facility with stories that my students do not. 

I have a large amount of bandwidth available to me onstage. 

The two women in the video surely understand how to play tic-tac-toe better than they demonstrated that night. But their bandwidth was restricted by the other conditions of the game.

  • Shoot baskets in order to put down an X or an O.
  • Run.
  • Play on a board hundreds of times larger than your typical board. 
  • Perform in front of thousands of people. 

They were processing so much new information that a task as simple as tic-tac-toe became challenging for them.

Bandwidth must be considered by teachers at all times. It's why students might be able to complete all the required operations of a long division problem (division, multiplication, and  subtraction) and might even be able to explain the process of ling division to you, but when it comes time to actually complete a problem, they fall apart. 

It's bandwidth. Independently, these operations are not taxing on the student's mind, but put them all together in a complex system and simple errors quickly emerge.

This is why we must practice. We practice so that our minds can gain facility with a process such that bandwidth is no longer an issue. For some students blessed with greater bandwidth, this might mean far fewer practice problems. For students with reduced bandwidth, it might mean many more. 

I love this and hate this.

It's rare that a document can bring joy to my heart and enrage me all at the same time. 

King Jordan, the student who wrote this journal response, clearly has strong and justifiable feelings about Columbus Day and the reality of the explorer's accomplishments. While his journal response might not be the most measured and thoughtful reflection of his learning that day, he is being both honest and passionate. A teacher should be thrilled with a journal response like this.  

I would be. I loved this journal response. I admired it. 

King is also a kid. While he was admittedly not as respectful in his response as I might like, he should be afforded some latitude when it comes to expressing his feelings in writing. He was angry. He felt powerless. And he's a kid, damn it. Give him a break. He's writing. Finding his voice. Experimenting with the craft. Help him write a more respectful and perhaps effective response, but celebrate this attempt. Cheer him on. Encourage this level of passion and honesty always.    

Instead, the teacher makes a bunch of terrible choices. Rather than being open to criticism and the possibility of divergent thinking, he reacts emotionally and defensively. He takes his student's criticism personally.

Instead of offering the constructive criticism that this student deserves, he responds in a single sentence, and his feedback is both irrelevant and thin-skinned. He also puts this meaningless and atrocious feedback in writing, thus making it both public and permanent. He doesn't encourage further conversation or reflection. He simply tells his student that he doesn't like what he wrote and that it makes him sad.

He also randomly and incorrectly capitalizes the J in journal in his response, which annoys me to no end. 

It's a selfish, stupid response that does a disservice to the teaching profession and a greater disservice to a student who is passionate about his education. 

King's response to his teacher's feedback is brilliant: 

"OK." A single word that offers nothing by way of emotion or agreement.

It's all a response like this deserves. 

teacher dumb.jpg

This punishment may have gone too far.

I am not opposed to the unorthodox, clever, or even severe consequence when one of my students (or one of my children) misbehaves. As much positive feedback as I offer my students and kids on a daily basis, there are moments when a consequence is needed and warranted. 

But when it comes to punishments, I don't believe in acting cruel or unnecessarily harsh (though some of my former students may disagree).

So I'm not exactly sure how to feel about this father, who rightfully punished his daughter by taking away her phone (and thus eliminating her ability to send and receive text messages) but hours later slipped this sheet of paper under her bedroom door. 

Unorthodox? Yes.
Clever? Absolutely.
But cruel? Maybe. 

I don't know the relationship this father has with his daughter, so perhaps this is part of a running gag, or maybe his daughter was primed for a joke like this. Maybe he was trying to make her laugh.  

But judging this on face value alone? I'm not sure. 

It's funny and unforgettable and imaginative, but I'm not sure that I could do it, simply because it strikes me as too mean.  

Coming from me, that's really saying something.