Idea #2: Eliminate Curriculum (As We Know It)

At the end of the school year I met with the administrator who does my evaluation and he/she asked me to think over the summer about some "big ideas" that would be worth discussing that could improve our school. This is the second of hopefully several blog posts that will explore some of those ideas. (The first was Eliminate Letter Grades, GPA and Class Rank.) Warning - this will be extremely long, somewhat rambly, and very narrative/descriptive.

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Name of Administrator,

In my previous big idea I suggested that there were three major areas that needed to be explored: our system/schedule, our curriculum, and our assessment/reporting system. While I felt that assessment/reporting was fundamental to everything we do, and drives so many of the decisions (and assumptions) we make regarding what we do, curriculum is a close second.

For me, talking about curriculum with educators is analogous to trying to talk to a fish about water. If you ask a fish how the water is today (go with me on this), she's likely to say, "What water?" Water is so omnipresent for fish, such a "given", that it almost doesn't even register as a variable in their environment: it is their environment. Curriculum is the same for educators. We have spent a large majority of our lives immersed in school that has been defined by the curriculum.

First we attended 12 or 13 years of K-12 schools, then typically four years of college, and - for many of us - a year or two or three of grad school (not to mention numerous professional development opportunities that operated similarly). And as educators (particularly if you are a career educator) we have spent our adult lives in schools that have been defined by the curriculum. As a very specific example, I have spent 45 of my 51 years (not counting those professional development opportunities as additional time) in formal, traditional (for lack of a better word) educational settings. What water? What curriculum?

Over all those years in formal, traditional educational settings, we have lost track of some of the basic assumptions we have made (and continue to make) about what school is. One of the most basic assumptions we make is that a pre-defined, standardized curriculum is not only necessary, but is central to the basic idea of what school is. In many ways, it has become the de facto purpose of school. So, for this post, here is my basic assertion: When we create and "deliver" a pre-defined curriculum to our students, we are robbing them of the essence of what it means to learn.

Because we have been so immersed in "school" as we know it, because curriculum has both visibly and invisibly shaped most of our lives, we have trouble seeing the pitfalls inherent in a curriculum. Here's a basic truth about curriculum that I would hazard to say we rarely share with our students: it's a guess. Some folks would argue that it's a well-informed, educated guess, but it's a guess nonetheless, and it's a guess that's made using some very faulty assumptions.

• The first assumption is that we know what is essential to be "educated." We don't.
• The second assumption is that we know what is essential to be "successful" (which we really need to define) in the future. We don't.
• The third assumption is that the future is going to be very similar to the past and present. It won't be.
• The fourth assumption is that the only way to prepare students for their future is to have them learn a pre-determined, fixed set of knowledge and skills, in a certain order, at the same time, and within a certain time frame. I remember Will Richardson referring to in a presentation a long time ago as "just in case" education. But today's world - and so much of what we know about learning - requires a more "just in time" approach.
• The fifth assumption is that all students need to know the same things, at the same level, and at the same age. They don't.
  
• The sixth assumption is that, even if you agree with the previous five assumptions, our system as it is currently constructed is well-designed to accomplish those things. It isn't, and it doesn't.

What does it mean to be educated? I don't think we really know. If you ask most people this question, the response will typically include some or all of the following:

• literate
• numerate
• critical thinker
• knowledgeable
• lifelong learner
• problem solver

There are many more, of course, but those tend to be the top responses. I don't necessarily disagree with these, by the way, but I disagree with how people are typically defining them. Let's take "literate" as an example. What does it mean to be literate?

When I was growing up, being literate basically meant being able to read, at about the 8th or 9th grade level. Now we've done a ton of work in the last 40 years or so and have improved the definition of literacy tremendously. It's not "just" being able to read, but to be able to think critically about what we read, and write, and communicate, and it includes numeracy, and scientific literacy, and artistic literacy, and a long, long list of other "literacies", skills, and habits of mind. Even the National Council of Teachers of English has laid out a much broader and more nuanced definition of literacy:

Literacy has always been a collection of cultural and communicative practices shared among members of particular groups. As society and technology change, so does literacy. Because technology has increased the intensity and complexity of literate environments, the 21st century demands that a literate person possess a wide range of abilities and competencies, many literacies. These literacies are multiple, dynamic, and malleable. As in the past, they are inextricably linked with particular histories, life possibilities, and social trajectories of individuals and groups. Active, successful participants in this 21st century global society must be able to

• Develop proficiency and fluency with the tools of technology; 

• Build intentional cross-cultural connections and relationships with others so to pose and solve problems collaboratively and strengthen independent thought;

• Design and share information for global communities to meet a variety of purposes; Manage, analyze, and synthesize multiple streams of simultaneous information; 

• Create, critique, analyze, and evaluate multimedia texts; 

• Attend to the ethical responsibilities required by these complex environments.

Notice that it's not a single "literacy," literacy with a capital L; but multiple literacies. And those literacies are "dynamic and malleable." That means they are constantly changing, shifting, adapting, and are shaped by the learners themselves. What percentage of our staff do you think meets the above definition of literacy?

As another example, let's look briefly at "knowledgeable." What does it mean to be knowledgeable in 2015 (and beyond)? When nearly the sum total of humankind's knowledge is a click (or a voice request, or an automated computer request) away, what does it truly mean to be "knowledgeable"? How valuable is it to have a built-in, random-access storehouse of "knowledge" in a local repository we call our brain so that we can recall individual factoids on demand? To be clear, I'm not suggesting knowledge isn't important, it is. It's necessary, but not sufficient. But how important, and how much knowledge, and what kind of knowledge? I'm suggesting that our current emphasis on knowledge acquisition and retrieval is misguided. It's not (just) how much you know, but it's what can you do with it? Knowing isn't enough, being able to do something with that knowledge is what we want for our students. And, increasingly, it's not (just) what you know, it's who you know.

Lifelong learner. This is a buzzword that educators have been using my entire career. We love to give lip-service to it, but do we actually believe it? The irony is that the assumption of a fixed curriculum is antithetical to the concept of being a lifelong learner. Why do I have to know Algebra by the end of 9th grade if I'm a lifelong learner? Does everyone have to know Chemistry and, if so, do they have to know it by age 17? If I'm a lifelong learner, shouldn't I be continuously learning, and if I need to learn Algebra or Chemistry or whatever at the age of 24 (or 44, or 64), can't I do that? (And, by the way, while Algebra may not be changing so much, Chemistry certainly is, so a decent portion of the Chemistry they are "learning' in 2015 will be outdated when they are 44 or 64). If our goal is to create lifelong learners, why are we so fixated on making sure they are "learned"?

Okay, so I could go on about this for a long time (you probably think I already have), but I'll stop with this part for now and address the next logical question: so what should we do instead? Again, as I said in the previous post, this is something that needs to be a school-wide discussion and, to be perfectly clear, I do not think there is one right way to do this. But I have learned previously that sometimes it's helpful for folks to have at least one possible vision of what it could look like in order to get the conversation started. So here's my conversation starter.

While I personally think we should throw out the curriculum (as we know it) for all four years at AHS, I think that is probably too radical of a step to take all at once (and very unlikely to happen). So my suggestion is a bit of compromise, but one that I think still holds reasonably true to what our students need while simultaneously having at least a small chance of being adopted and being much easier to practically implement as we transition from our current system. I would propose a hybrid solution, with freshmen and sophomore years staying somewhat traditional, and junior and senior years being radically different.

I'll delve into the details a bit to sketch out the idea, but will try not to delve too deeply since this is just one possible vision of what it could look like. The basic idea is that freshmen and sophomore years would still look fairly "traditional," and by traditional I mean that students would have a schedule of classes with somewhat similar requirements (core, elective, hours, etc.) as we do now. This would help address concerns that ninth and tenth graders aren't ready for the radical changes I'm going to suggest for juniors and seniors, that they will need to transition from the schooling they've known to this new approach, and then we need a couple of years to bring them into this new culture of learning at AHS that we are trying to develop. It would also address some of the practical matters regarding graduation, state, and college requirements, as well as provide a place for existing staff that might not be quite as ready to jump into the radical innovation portion.

While this would resemble what AHS looks like currently for ninth and tenth graders, it would not exactly duplicate it. All of our "courses" would undergo some changes, some more subtle and some more radical, all designed to begin to transition and transform our students to be prepared to be successful, more independent learners in their junior and senior years. This would have to be part of a coherent vision of the four years at Arapahoe, and a coherent vision of what it means to be a learner today (and in the future). There would be a lot of heavy lifting involved in making these changes and I could foresee some significant changes in required courses in ninth and tenth grade given the radical changes I'm suggesting for 11th and 12th.

So what then does 11th and 12th grade look like? There are lots of possibilities here, and I think it's important to realize up front that it will not be one-size-fits-all. It will - and should - look different for different students. But I envision much more personal learning (not "individualized" or even "personalized", although I think personalized can be interpreted similarly to personal). In brief, "individualized" learning is something we do to kids; we try to deliver the existing curriculum in individualized ways to be more successful with each student. While I prefer that as compared to non-individualized learning, that's not what we're going for. We're going for "personal" learning, which is learning that kids do for themselves.

We want students to become (with our help) master learners. We want them to pursue their passions, to engage in relevant, meaningful and deep learning that matters both to them and to the world around them. We want them to have the ability to spend two months (or two years) pursuing an idea deeply if they so choose, and our job is to help them do that as successfully as possible. This could take many forms, from internships, to apprenticeships, to independent or small group studies. Or it could even look somewhat like traditional courses for those students who feel like that will best meet their needs at this time. The power of the approach, however, is there is no one fixed path, and - for most students - it's likely to include all of the above approaches (and more) put together in unique combinations.

If our goal is to help students become lifelong learners, who are literate, numerate, and knowledgeable critical thinkers and problems solvers, then we need to give students the opportunity to do those things right now, in high school (not at some unspecified "later" in the "real world"). We underestimate the ability and the passion of our students. To paraphrase Marianne Williamson,

Our greatest fear is not that our students are incapable, it's that they are capable beyond our expectations. It is the fear of what might go right, not the fear of what might go wrong, that most frightens us.

At this point you may be thinking that this sounds interesting (perhaps even "great"), but what about having students "college and career ready?" I would take issue with that phrase. Over the last few years this phrase has been developed with good intentions, but I think with three underlying, and faulty, assumptions.

The first faulty assumption is that we truly know, starting in Kindergarten - at least 13 years before students will enter college or a career - what they will need 13 years (or 17, or 37, or 57) years in the future. Even if you shift the start to ninth grade, it's the height of hubris to assume that we know what our students are really going to need in their career in 2050.

The second assumption I think is really a slightly disguised bias toward college. At least in my recollection and personal experience, the phrase "college and career ready" started out as "college ready," and then the "career" part was added on later when folks figured out both the elitist and impractical implications of saying all kids should be college ready. The bias, I believe, is that while they say "college and career ready", the strong belief is that college is better and, well, if you can't be college ready, then okay, you can be career ready. I also think the assumption is that if we design our schools to produce students who are college ready, they will also be career ready. I'm not sure I completely follow the logic of that.

The final assumption this phrase makes is that "college and career ready" should be our goal. I would strongly argue that, while I believe the approach I'm describing will actually make our students more "college and career ready" than our current approach, that really shouldn't be our goal. Again, I would reference the saying we have prominently displayed in our cafeteria, "Not for school, but for life, we learn." If we are "preparing" our students for anything, it's for life (although I'm not a huge fan of focusing too much on "preparing" vs. actually living). While "college" and/or "career" will likely be a sizable portion of many of our students' lives, it is not their entire life, and we should be "preparing" them for all of it. (And since "college" is really just "pre-career", this phrase really implies that we are preparing them solely for careers; for jobs, to be workers, which I also think is problematic.) If we believe that education is about more than simply preparing students to be good employees, than "college and career ready" cannot be our goal.

Again, I could go on for a long time, but let me close with one more issue that is likely to be prominent in any discussion regarding a plan that looks anything similar to what I've proposed. What will teachers do with those juniors and seniors? This is more than just a practical question, I think it actually is a fundamentally philosophical question about what it means to be a "teacher" in 2015.

If this idea were presented to staff I think it would engender many reactions, but I could perhaps envision dividing teacher reactions into four groups. A small, but not insignificant, number of our teachers would be ready to jump in with both feet. A small, but larger number of our teachers would be intrigued and ready to jump in with one foot, but would need some time to think through this and adapt. A similar-sized group of our teachers would be willing to dip a toe in. Finally, a small, but not insignificant group of our teachers would not want to even get near the water. I think all four groups, but especially the last two, would express something similar to, "But I"m a (fill in the blank) teacher. What would I teach?"

This reminds me of something I've heard Chris Lehmann say many times, "I don't teach "English" or "Math", I teach students English or I teach students Math.) I think another obvious, but perhaps unintended, consequence of defining school as delivering curriculum is forgetting the fact that we aren't here to teach subjects, we are here to teach students. I think I might even go a bit further than Chris's statement and suggest that even the phrasing "I teach students (fill in the blank)" is perhaps still not quite what we're going for at AHS in 2015 (and beyond). If our goal is to help them become lifelong learners, then even saying "I teach students mathematics" is too limiting.

I just finished reading Will Richardson's From Master Teacher to Master Learner, and I think Will does a much better job than I would in describing this shift. (I highly recommend you read it, in fact, I think it would make a great follow-up book study for the staff after Mindset.) But, briefly, let me try to convey my interpretation. The role of the teacher is no longer (and perhaps never should have been) to deliver a fixed body of knowledge to a student; rather, the role of the teacher is to be a master learner and to help students become master learners. We need to model learning for and alongside our students and, in the process, help them become the best learners they can be.

So instead of Chris's phrasing (which I still like), I would initially change it to "I help students learn (fill in the blank subject area)" and, then, one step further, "I help students learn," and, even further, "I help people learn." Limiting it to just "students" ignores the very concept of lifelong learners - we are all students, if we needlessly delineate students as a separate, and often by implication inferior, category, then we are limiting ourselves and everyone around us. This touches on my personal mission statement that I tried to compose a while back,

To help myself and those around me become better learners and discover and pursue their passions.

Maybe a little better, but it's awkward with the multiple 'ands', and I still don't quite like the phrase 'better learners.' So then I'm reminded of another post where I reference something David Jakes wrote talking about culture, and I wonder if somehow my mission statement should try to talk about a culture of learning.

To help myself and those around me develop a culture of learning; one where we help each other discover and then pursue our passions.

In my suggestion for how we transform AHS (particularly junior and senior year, but also transitioning to and developing the culture for it in freshmen and sophomore years), the role of the teacher really does shift from "teaching" in the traditional way we've defined that to "learning, helping others learn and become better learners, and developing a culture of learning." Some teachers (perhaps many) will not initially (or perhaps ever) be comfortable with that definition or role but, in the end, it is the role that our students need us to fill. We need to make a decision, are schools designed to meet the needs of our students? Or not?

Clearly, there are many more details I could go into, including a suggested timeline for this transition (initial thinking, between two and five years), but I think this is probably enough to lay out the general idea and to get the conversation started. I look forward to having this discussion with the entire staff.

Karl

Idea #1: Eliminate Letter Grades, GPA and Class Rank

At the end of the school year I met with the administrator who does my evaluation and he/she asked me to think over the summer about some "big ideas" that would be worth discussing that could improve our school. This is the first of hopefully several blog posts that will explore some of those ideas. Warning - this will be extremely long, somewhat rambly, and very narrative/descriptive.

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Name of Administrator,

You asked me to think of some "big ideas" that could help Arapahoe improve and meet the needs of our students even more effectively than we currently do. A former administrator of ours used to refer to this as "taking it to the next level" (and the gaming culture refers to this as "leveling up"). While well intentioned, I grew to dislike that phrase over time because I felt like it was too ambiguous and was too often for "show" and not for "substance." It also implies that there is a "level" we are at that applies equally to all students, a one-size-fits-all approach that suggests there is one right way to meet the needs of all of our students. I, of course, disagree with that, both in theory and in practice. So as I began to think about your request I decided to frame it more in the context of educational "first principles" instead of "levels"or even "improvements."

As I began sketching out a few of those big ideas, I quickly realized that some ideas were bigger than others, which meant I had to make a decision: do I start with the smaller big ideas or the really big big ideas? Many folks would suggest that we should start with the smaller ones, because - while big - they are still much less threatening to the existing structure and therefore more likely to be adopted or at least partially adopted. But as I thought about first principles, I decided to take the alternate approach. We should start with some of the biggest ideas first, because so much of our system (both current and hopefully future) flows from some basic decisions (assumptions) that we've made and often don't even go back and question. That doesn't mean that any of the ideas that follow can't stand on their own or aren't worthwhile even if we don't adopt the biggest ideas, it just means we should do the hard work of tackling the biggest ideas first because they will not only have the biggest impact, but will shape all the other ideas to come.

I've written previously about mission statements and how I don't think ours is a very good one. I think the problem boils down to first principles, and that we haven't truly identified what our core values and goals are for our students (or even for ourselves as educators). Clearly it wouldn't make much sense for me to to try to identify those core values for our school by myself, so I'm not going to try to do that here. But as I thought about what I could suggest that might be one level of abstraction removed from those core values, I thought of three majors areas: our system/schedule, our curriculum, and our assessment/reporting system. All three of those are worth discussing in depth, but for this first idea at least I've decided to focus on the last one: our assessment/reporting system.

Here is my basic assertion, which I would suggest is a basic truth about our current system: When we have an assessment and reporting system for learning that undermines the learning, the reporting system is fatally flawed and needs to change. To me, so many of the "problems" I see with our current system, and probably the single biggest impediment to meaningful change, is grades. Specifically, letter grades, and especially because those letter grades are typically assigned by averaging percents across multiple discrete assignments over an arbitrary amount of time (a semester). We then compound that huge mistake by translating those letter grades into GPA (more averaging of discrete and unrelated items), and then use that GPA to establish a Class Rank for each and every one of our students. In my view, this is both morally and pedagogically indefensible and needs to stop. Which is why it's the first of the "big ideas" I think we should discuss as a school.

There are a myriad of different ways that grades (along with GPA and Class Rank) undermine the learning; I will mention just a few (although I'd be happy to go more in-depth on any of them if you'd like).

Ask any teacher at AHS in the last two weeks of the semester what is frustrating them the most, and one of the first things out of their mouth will be students asking what they can do to improve their grade. (We even have a name for this, "grade grubbing.") It's frustrating because the students are basically asking what they can do to get more "points" - the conversation is not at all about learning. As educators, we complain endlessly about this, but fail to acknowledge that we have created it. If we want the conversation to be about learning, we need to remove the whole idea of "points" and "letter grades."

The idea of assigning a percent to what a student knows on a particular assignment, and then averaging those percents over an arbitrary amount of time to come up with an overall grade, is indefensible mathematically, pedagogically, practically, and based on what we know about human development. If we value learning, if we value growth, if we value effort, then letter grades must go.

Our staff has been asked to read Dweck's Mindset this summer so we can discuss in the fall. The central tenet of the book is that by focusing on a growth mindset, you will maximize potential, growth and achievement. Our current system undermines that every chance it gets. As an example, take two hypothetical freshmen starting at AHS in English 9. The first student has struggled previously and starts the year unable to write a complete and coherent sentence. By the end of the semester, that student has made great strides and can now write a pretty good paragraph, but still hasn't managed to put four or five of those paragraphs together to write a good essay.

The second student has had many advantages over the years, including an affinity for reading and writing, a supportive home life that has provided not only the encouragement but the background knowledge necessary to be a successful reader and writer, the fine motor skills that allows the student to physically write fairly effortlessly, has had excellent teachers over the previous nine years of schooling, and has the "slack" in their life to be able to recover from any minor setbacks they may encounter. They begin the year already being able to write a terrific five-paragraph essay and, by the end of the semester, can still do that.

In our current system, the first student is likely to get a 'C' or a 'D', and the second student will get an 'A'. If we believe that all students can learn, if we believe that our role is to help students improve and get better, if we believe that a "growth mindset" is key to helping all students achieve their potential, then letter grades must go.

GPA and Class Rank have never made much sense to me, even when I was in high school and an active participant in the "race." I still remember my counselor, one of my teachers, and several of my friends who all strenuously argued with me about a couple of my class choices. We had a weighted GPA system, where courses that were designated "college prep" received extra points toward your GPA (5, 4, 3, 1) vs. "regular" courses (4, 3, 2, 1). (At AHS, of course, we do the same thing with AP Courses.)

The classes I chose to take were a Typing class and some Accounting classes. Because I chose to take these instead of "college prep" courses, it "lowered" my GPA relative to other high-achieving students and dropped my class rank. Those classes, of course, turned out to be some of the most useful classes for my adult life. Being able to "type" quickly and accurately has completely altered both my level of productivity and what I've been able to achieve as an adult. Those accounting classes allowed me to get a job in high school and college working at a credit union, which not only helped me pay for college but spurred a lifelong interest in financial matters. As I've pursued that interest, it has allowed me to be very successful financially compared to my earnings "peers", has allowed me to serve on district committees to help negotiate salary and benefits for all employees, and has allowed me to be elected a Trustee of PERA, helping oversee the accounts of more than 500,000 members and more than $44 Billion dollars in assets. Yet our system values those classes "less."

This hasn't changed. When I was a full-time math teacher and taught Honors Trig/Pre-Calc, I often had students in class who didn't seem to be very interested in mathematics or even to like it very much. When I asked them why they were taking an Honors Math class if they weren't interested in the field, the response was always the same: I need to take this so that I can take AP Calculus so that I can keep my GPA and Class Rank. When I asked if there were other classes they would rather be taking, they could easily name 5 or 6 without even thinking about it. Even though I'm not a full-time math teacher at present, I still hear student conversations every year around scheduling time talking about the classes they "have to take" in order to eventually get the weighed GPA that AP classes give them.

We need to ask ourselves what the purpose of GPA and Class Rank is. I really, truly don't see any valid purpose, but here's my understanding of what advocates say is the purpose. We need an easy way to rank and sort our students, to determine who is "better" and "worse" than other students. Because that's the way to identify who is "successful" and who is "not," the way to provide "feedback" and to hold teachers and students "accountable" and to "motivate" students to do their best, and, of course, to make it easier for college admissions officers. I would suggest that only that last one is actually true, and I don't think that should be one of our core values and goals. (Since I know college admissions will be a sticking point for some, I will point out that some of the most elite schools in the U.S. don't give letter grades and their students get into college just fine, and so do home school students. And, of course, I think college should be the goal of only some of our students, and probably a lot fewer than most people expect.)

One last example. The students who just finished their Freshmen year at Arapahoe are the Class of 2018. As you would expect, there were a wide variety of GPA's among our freshmen class, but I think most observers at a distance would consider a 3.5 GPA for a freshman to indicate a fairly decent outcome (our freshmen don't take AP classes, so this is out of a straight 4 point scale). The interesting thing, however, is that a student who just completed their freshmen year at AHS with a 3.5 would currently be ranked 230th in the class, with little or no hope of having that be significantly higher by the time they graduate.

Exactly how many of our students is class rank actually helping? I would argue that, at most, it's helping the top 10 to 20 students; and even for those students, given all the other pieces of their admissions portfolio, I would question whether the class rank is much of a factor at all. For the other 500 students in the class the class rank is either useless, or actually hurts their college admissions process. Which is why many high achieving high schools - even ones who would disagree with the rest of this big idea - have eliminated class rank. They've figured out that it actually does a disservice to their students (and that's not even including the philosophical reasons not to do it).

All of these problems exist, of course, even if we assume that our grading process is fair and accurate. As I've written before, it's not. So the obvious next question is, what should we do instead? How should we assess and report student learning? (Note that I chose student "learning" very carefully as opposed to student "achievement", I think they are two different things and our focus on "achievement" has been a big part of our problem.)

Again, this is something that needs to be a school-wide discussion and, to be perfectly clear, I do not think there is one right way to do this. But I have learned previously that sometimes it's helpful for folks to have at least one possible vision of what it could look like in order to get the conversation started. So here's my conversation starter.

I think we should radically alter our current assessment and reporting system. I think we should eliminate letter grades, GPA and Class Rank and replace them with assessment and reporting that is not only much more accurate, but much more meaningful to students, parents, employers and colleges. I don't want to wade too far into the details, but I will get into the weeds just a little bit to give you an idea.

I think we should focus on providing on-going, meaningful feedback for students first, and then reports to document that feedback second. Feedback for students is only meaningful if it's actionable; if students actually act on that feedback and use it to help them learn. Our current system of feedback is typically very poor at accomplishing this. Again, ask just about any teacher at AHS about what happens when they return a graded assignment, and most of them will bemoan the fact that students just look at the grade, ignore the feedback, and then throw the assignment away. Instead of bemoaning this fact, we should change the system that has created this behavior. Since research indicates that providing feedback to students without a grade attached is the most successful at accomplishing this (as compared to only letter grade, or even to letter grade and feedback), we should focus our efforts on providing accurate, timely and effective feedback. (As an aside, I think that would be an excellent focus for our staff development efforts over the next year or two.)

Once we have dedicated ourselves to providing accurate, timely and effective feedback to our students, how then do we "report" out student learning to students, parents and the community? I would suggest one of the best ways to do that is with narrative reports. Instead of the false sense of precision that a "78%" in the grade book seems to give us, let's provide thoughtful, meaningful reporting tailored to each student. At this point many teachers are immediately objecting about the amount of time this would take and, for some of them, how hard this would be to do for each student. So let's address both of those.

First, the time it takes to do this. I would suggest that providing meaningful feedback throughout the school year is something that is essential to what we do and something that we claim to do already. So while shifting away from "points" and "percents" to something more in-depth might take more time throughout the semester, it will increase student learning and isn't that our goal? I also think that at least some of that time will be recouped by the time saved not figuring out points and entering assignments in the grade book. Since we presumably want something in the grade book throughout the semester, to indicate progress and for things like eligibility, I would propose a system that looks something like this.

While grades could be (and should be) adjusted more frequently as teachers gather more information, teachers would be asked to, at a minimum, have updated grades in the grade book at 6, 12 and 18 weeks. (As another aside, and to forestall some objections, I would point out that this is how we used to do it, so it can certainly be done that way if we choose.) The "grades" we enter in the grade book would not be letter grades, but our professional judgement as to how the student is currently progressing. Again, the details would have to be discussed and decided on as a staff, but as a starting point I would suggest three designations (if you wanted it slightly more granular, you could divide it into four categories, but I would definitely not go any further than four):

• Progressing
• Partially Progressing
• Not Adequately Progressing (yet)

There are at least three ways these grades could be reported. The simplest would be just one grade in the grade book that is the teacher's overall assessment of the student at that point in time. Many folks might be concerned about the potential complications of this, but I think we need to step up and own our assessment and reporting. Most educators have been complaining that we wished the public and our elected representatives would trust us more, would trust our professional judgement. Well, here is an opportunity to walk that walk. Instead of relying on the false precision of meaningless points and percentages, we need to know our students well enough to accurately assess their progress.

As an alternative, we could get a bit more granular with the reporting. I see two ways of breaking it down further, either into major themes of the course (what we used to refer to as "essential learnings") or even further into specific standards. If we decided on essential learnings, then each course would have between 2 and 5 categories in the grade book, one for each essential learning, and at the 6, 12 and 18-week mark would be responsible for updating those 2 to 5 "assignments" with the student's current progress (again, could be updated more frequently, but at a minimum).

If you wanted to get more granular still, you could break it down to the standards level, and assign the Progressing/Partially Progressing/Not Adequately Progressing (yet) grade to each standard. Personally, I think this is too far, not as helpful as the first two options, and is in danger of replicating many of the problems of our current system, but I wanted to include it because I think an argument can be made for it.

At the end of each semester teacher and students would jointly develop a narrative report to document their progress. This would replace the less-than-meaningful "report cards" we currently generate with something that is both more accurate and more useful. This would take a significant amount of time and effort, but I think it is both doable and worth doing. My suggestion for how to find the time to do this is simple: eliminate final exam week and parent/teacher conferences.

Final exam week seems to be in direct contradiction to what we say we believe in. If we believe all students can learn, that learning is a process that is never finished, and that our goal is to create lifelong learners, why would we pick an arbitrary time to give a "summative" assessment? The idea of giving a "final" exam to a teenager is ludicrous. (In fact, it's ludicrous no matter one's age, but especially so for a teenager.) We even have a saying prominently displayed in our cafeteria, "Not for school, but for life, we learn." If we believe that, then final exams must go. (Note that if teachers are doing on-going assessment really well, we are constantly giving assessments that are both formative and "summative" - in the sense that they are summative up to that point. Teachers can still choose to give a somewhat summative "exam" at the end of the semester if they wish, we just wouldn't dedicate four entire days to it.)

In addition to eliminating final exams, I would propose we eliminate (at least in our current form) parent/teacher conferences. In the fall we currently spend two nights and two school days (one in-service, one "comp" day) on this, and I think most folks would agree that the actual results are not worth the time. In this day and age, we can easily communicate with students and parents whenever we need to, not at some arbitrary time partway through the semester that fits well in our calendar. This includes meeting face-to-face if necessary, and without the artificial constraints of parent/teacher conferences (meeting in the gym with hundreds of other people, with a five-minute limit, and usually without the student present).

When you combine the four days sacrificed for final exams and the two days for parent/teacher conferences, that frees up six days for end of the semester assessment for conferencing without cutting instructional time. (Second semester is slightly more complicated because we do scheduling after final exams three of those days, but that can be addressed.) My initial proposal is that we designate each of those 6 days for one of our six periods. So the first day would be to meet with students in period 1, the second day in period 2, etc. (There are obviously some teachers that have MWF and a TR class the same period, but those details can be worked out, including the fact that most teachers have a period completely off - which translates to a conferencing day that is freed up. Lots of details, but all doable.)

Teachers would meet with each student for roughly 10 minutes and have individual conferences with them. This could be done in a variety of ways, but I think the two most likely approaches would be teachers and students jointly developing something written ahead of time and then discussing and finalizing, or simply writing up (or audio recording) the 10 minute conversation (or a combination of these two approaches, depending on teacher preference and what works best for the particular course). With the technology we have available (Google Docs and Drive for writing and/or storing of the audio, cell phones or computers to record and easily upload the audio to Drive and share), this process is very doable. (Since one-size does not fit all, there might be several variations on this based on what teachers think would work best in their course.)

Given our class sizes and the nature of these conversations, these would be long, intense days, and I think teachers would be both exhausted and not at their best if these were 6 back-to-back days. So my suggestion would be to use the Monday and Friday of the last three weeks of the semester for this. (Using this fall's schedule as just an example, that would mean conferencing days on November 30th, December 4th, 7th, 11th, 14th and 18th). That would spread out the days, allowing three school days or two weekend days in between the intense days. The schedule for the three school days in the middle of each week could be adjusted to provide equity between classes that meet on different days. (Again, details, but very doable. And, again, this is just one possible way to give folks an idea of how it could be done.)

That addresses the time to do it; the second concern I expect to hear is how hard this would be to do for each student. I agree, this would be difficult, but I think it's what we signed up to do. To paraphrase President Kennedy,

We choose to do this not because it is easy, but because it is hard. Because it is what's necessary to truly meet the needs of our students, to provide them the education they deserve and that we have promised them. It is a challenge we are no longer willing to postpone, but one that we willingly accept.

If we truly believe that meaningful feedback for our students is the only way to help them learn, to grow, to achieve their potential, to fulfill our mission, we will accept this challenge. I look forward to having this discussion with the entire staff.

Karl

Dear Best-of-all-Warriors

The following is a letter written on December 17th, 2013, to her fifth period English Lit class by Marlys Ferrill, a Language Arts teacher in my building. With her permission, I share it with you.

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                                                                                                                        December 17, 2013

Dear Best-of-all-Warriors,

Last Friday, December 13th, 2013 we became a family.  We were not simply a group of people taking English Literature from Mrs. Ferrill fifth period, but a family facing a common threat to our very existence...and a family huddling together in fear and support, not knowing if life would ever be the same again.

And now we know; life will never be the same again.  As a mother, I am biologically wired to protect my children at all costs.  I want to save my children from the ugly realities of the world, and I want my children to feel safe, secure, and loved.  My son Jeff is now 33 years old and my daughter Meredith is 31.  Although I have kept them safe from physical harm, I have not been able to shield them completely from disappointment, sadness, anxiety, loss, anger, or fear.  And so, when I looked at your faces last Friday and saw the loss of innocence cloud your eyes with the knowledge that bad things do happen to good people, I began to shake (and so did my stupid Jingle Bell earrings), knowing I would not be able to save you from harm if suddenly the classroom door burst open.

But then something magical happened.  You saved me.  Your quiet, determined faces remained strong.  Those of you standing toughened your posture, ready to pounce.  Some of you sat quietly praying, and I felt a spiritual power calming my pounding heart.  Others checked phones and began texting.  Protocol says students shouldn’t use their phones during a lock-down, but your connection to the outside world was reassuring.  Even though we didn’t hear sirens, we knew the world was watching our school and sending help.  When we finally evacuated, you moved quickly, methodically, following instructions exactly.  

I did not have the chance to talk with all of you after we ran across University Boulevard and congregated in front of Burger King.  But I want each of you to know your actions, your attitude, and your trust in me were heroic.  We began this semester reading “Invictus,” and you have proven you possess an “unconquerable soul.”  You have become “the man in the water.”   Your “essential, human nature...rose to the occasion,” and you proved to me that “no man is ordinary.”

I’m so sorry we did not have the chance to finish reading Hamlet together so you could see how Hamlet regains his heroic stature after suffering “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.”  We started the play watching Hamlet trying to discover “who’s there” and whether “to be or not to be.”  In the final scene of the play Hamlet agrees to the fencing match with Laertes.  Horatio tells him, “You will lose this wager,” but Hamlet replies, “There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.  If it be now tis not to come.  If it be not to come, it will be now.  The readiness is all...let be.”  Hamlet finally understands he can not control how long he will live or when he will die.  He must simply be ready for death when it comes and “let be.”  In Joseph Campbell’s words, “Conquering the fear of death is the recovery of life’s joy.”  

I also want you to know Shakespeare ultimately believed the Honor Code of Revenge was barbaric.  Laertes is a negative foil to Hamlet because his hot-headed nature precipitates the tragic ending in which both men die.  To Hamlet’s credit, he does not want to avenge his father’s death, and early in the play he says, “O cursed spite that ever I was born to set it right.”  Revenge never ends conflict.  As Gandhi once said, “An eye for an eye and the whole world is blind.”

The mother side of me wishes you did not have to experience the horror and devastation revenge causes.  The teacher side of me is eager to share with you literary works that will strengthen your soul against the “slings and arrows” of life.  For those of you who will remain a part of our English Literature family next semester, I can’t wait to share with you powerful literary masterpieces that will give you words that help you define your feelings.  For those of you who do not remain in this class second semester, you are still family and part of the warrior spirit that reminds us to take care of one another.

Thank you for reminding me why it is an honor to be your teacher; and may each of you enjoy a blessed winter break and a happy new year!

Love, Mother Ferrill

12.13.13

The following is my best recollection of recent events. I’ve tried to make it as accurate as possible, but undoubtedly there are mistakes of fact or sequence, as eyewitness accounts are notoriously inaccurate. I’ve also tried to be as honest as possible in regards to my own thoughts, feelings and actions, even though at times that may not reflect particularly favorably on me. I debated for quite a while whether to write anything about this event, but finally decided that I would because it’s what I do, and because I’ve always felt that knowledge was a good thing. There isn’t anything profound here, but by sharing my experience it might help others who find themselves in similar situations.

Friday, December 13, 2013, approximately 12:10 pm

I leave my office and head down to the main office. I have an appointment at the beginning of 5th period with an assistant principal and another teacher and I want to get down there before the halls fill up with students changing classes. Before I head into my meeting, I stop by the principal’s secretary’s desk and drop off my daughter’s open enrollment application. She’ll be a freshmen next year.

Approximately 12:33 or 12:34 pm

I’m in my meeting in the assistant principal’s office with the door closed when suddenly the door bursts open and his secretary yells, “There’s a shooter in the library.” The assistant principal reacts first and bursts out the door. I’m about two steps behind him.

He heads to the front part of the main office and I follow. I have a sense of other people running but I’m not really aware of who they are or where they are going. He heads to the PA system, activates it, and says, “Lockdown. Lockdown.” He then turns, heads down the hallway within the main office by the bookkeeper’s office, and then exits into the cafeteria.

The Sheriff later describes this as “running toward the thunder.” Our School Resource Officer, campus security personnel, and administration all “ran toward the thunder” - the library - that day.

12:34 or maybe 12:35 pm

I’m standing in the main office. I’m not sure what to do. This is not how I’ve rehearsed this. Every drill we’ve done - and every time I’ve rehearsed it in my head - I’ve been in one of two places, either with my Algebra class or in my office. I know what to do in those situations.

If I’m with my class, I make sure the door is locked, the lights are off, and the students are on the floor as far away from the door as possible and out of sight, and I’m in between them and the door. I then try to keep them safe, try to reassure them, and wait for instructions.

If I’m in my office (next door to the library), then I head into the library to help with their lockdown. We’ve had a lot of conversations about lockdown procedures in the library. It’s a large, open space that often has lots of students in it, and it’s an obvious point of vulnerability. There are also only two adults that are staffed in there (the media specialists and the media clerk), and often one of them is elsewhere in the building, so there can be a lot of students and not very many adults, so my responsibility is to go and try to help keep them safe and calm.

But I’m in the main office. I decide to head out into the cafeteria. I honestly have no idea exactly what I was thinking, but I’m pretty sure it was combination of two competing ideas. First, since I don’t have a class, I’m supposed to help in the library. I’ll head there. Clearly that’s a really stupid idea, and I think I realize that as I’m about to open the door to the cafeteria. The second idea takes over, I need to grab any students who are in the cafeteria and bring them into the relative safety of the main office.

As I enter the cafeteria the second idea has definitely won out, but it’s a moot point: there are no students in the cafeteria (they’ve already been grabbed by other people.) Again, I’m at a momentary loss as to what to do. A different assistant principal is running through the cafeteria and has seen me exiting the main office. He screams at me to “get back in there.” I decide that’s excellent advice and make my first good decision.

I re-enter the main office. Somehow I have a sense of which room people have locked down in so I head to that room. I pause outside the door - which is closed and undoubtedly locked. Now what? I’m the only one standing out here and they’ve already been in the room for a minute or two (I think). If I knock on the door or try to open it, they’ll freak out. I briefly debate entering a different room and locking myself in, but quickly decide it’s better for everyone, and eventually for the first responders, if we’re all in the same room. I decide to announce myself loudly at the door, “It’s Karl. I’m coming in.” Then use my key to unlock the door and enter.

I’m guessing all of the above has taken maybe 90 seconds at the most. My various “debates” with myself took longer to describe above than they actually took in my head - probably less than two seconds each. Twenty-four hours later we’d find out from the Sheriff’s press briefing that at about this time the shooter had already taken his own life, but of course no one knew that at the time.

12:35 or maybe 12:36 pm

As I enter the lockdown room it’s dark because the lights are off (of course), but the light from the doorway gives me just a brief impression of the room. I sense that there are quite a few people in the room, but I don’t know how many or who they are. I can only see and recognize the faces of two staff members who are near the door. I quickly close the door and can’t really see as my eyes haven’t adjusted, but I had noticed (or sensed, or something) that there was a small space available on the floor just inside the door. I sit down and turn to face the door.

The thought flashes through my head that just two or three days ago this room would’ve been full of presents waiting to be wrapped for Toys for Tots. Our wrapping party had been Wednesday after school and the wrapped gifts had already been removed to another space. There were still maybe one or two hundred gifts in the room that would go to the Denver Indian Center, but not the more than 1,000 gifts that had been there on Wednesday. We would’ve had a hard time fitting if all the gifts had been there.

When we evacuate I would find out that there were 16 of us in that room, 13 staff members (secretaries, counselors, teachers, including me) and 3 students who had been adjacent to the main office and pulled in. (Correction 1-10-14: After talking with someone else, I remembered that one of the adults in the room was a parent that had been in the school, so 12 staff members, 1 parent, and 3 students.) This is a narrow, rectangular conference room with big tables and chairs down the center and cabinets at the end (and gifts piled on the end with the cabinets). We were all on the floor around the edges with our backs to various walls except for me - my back was to gifts or a chair, I’m not sure which.

My eyes start adjusting. There is some light coming in around the doors and, I eventually notice, through the seams between the walls and the ceiling. (The main office was constructed well after the original building, when the school was added on to, and the area was reconfigured with walls that obviously were not load bearing.)

As I sit there I wonder what I should be doing to “prepare” for whatever might happen next. Again, this is something I’ve rehearsed in my head. In my Algebra classroom we have chairs that aren’t attached to the desks, and my students also have laptops. So my plan was always to have a chair ready to throw at an intruder, then follow that up with trying to hit them with a laptop. In the media center, there are similar chairs and lots of things to hit them with.

But in this conference room, the chairs are huge and there’s no room to grab them, lift them and throw them (plus they’re heavy). So I feel around and grab a rectangular gift that’s next to me that feels fairly heavy. It’s not much, and probably pretty useless, but it makes me feel like I’m doing something.

Later I would talk with many other teachers who were going through a similar process, finding something handy to use as a defensive weapon. Several days later I have a dream that the present I grabbed was a Barbie, and specifically the one from a few years ago that said “Math class is tough.” I could only imagine the headlines if I hit an intruder with that. Not sure what that says about me.

The sequence of this next part is pretty confused in my head. At some point all of these things happened, but I can’t remember for sure the order. I think there were three separate “excursions” from the lockdown room, and I think in this order (checking doors and announcement that didn’t go out, then announcement that did, then a second announcement a bit later), but I could be wrong.

Several Minutes Later

I realize that the fire alarm is going off. It probably has been for a minute or two, but I think this was the first time I noticed it. One of the secretaries has her walkie-talkie with her. This is how administration, campus security, secretaries and the custodial staff communicate across the building (not law enforcement). We hear a message come over the walkie-talkie asking if an announcement can be made telling people to not evacuate. They should ignore the fire alarm and stay in lockdown.

The secretary and I look at each other. The PA system is in the main office. The front of the main office, not the room we’re in. Those of us in that room are the only ones reasonably close to the PA system. We look at each other, stand up, and exit the room, along with another teacher, closing the door behind us. The PA system is around the corner, perhaps 20 feet away.

At some point (not sure if it was in the lockdown room or right now in the hallway), the secretary wonders aloud if we were sure we had locked all the external doors to the main office. She checks one door, the other teacher checks another door, and I check two doors (I think). I’m pretty sure I then grab the PA microphone and attempt to make an announcements telling them to stay in lockdown. This is one piece of technology I’m not familiar with. I’ve made announcements before, but they have updated the equipment slightly since then. Because the announcements don’t get broadcasted into the main office, it’s always hard to tell if the announcement actually works.

We return to the lockdown room, announce ourselves loudly, and re-enter the room and close the door. I make a comment about how I hate that I can never tell if the announcement actually works. The secretary looks at me and asks me if I pressed the two buttons first. I say, “What two buttons?”

The secretary and I leave the lockdown room again and run directly to the PA system. She pushes the two necessary buttons and I grab the microphone and say something like, “Do not evacuate. Stay in lockdown. Do not evacuate, stay in lockdown.” We run back to the lockdown room, announce ourselves, then reenter the room and close the door behind us.

I tend to use humor to deal with situations. All kinds of situations. So at some point in the lockdown room, in spite of the fact that we’re supposed to remain quiet, I make several comments. Somehow by this point I know there are some students in the room, so I think humor might keep them calm. Later I decide it was probably for my own benefit.

To the principal’s secretary, “About that open enrollment application I just dropped off with you . . .”

To the room in general, “How about those Broncos?” (They had played at home, and lost, to San Diego the night before.) Another memory briefly flashes, the Broncos played at home, and won, against the New York Giants on Monday night, September 10th, 2001. There was some talk that because that game ended so late New York time, that many people in New York were late getting into work the next morning, perhaps resulting in a few saved lives.

To the athletic secretary, “This is going to wreak havoc on your activities schedule.”

An undetermined amount of time passes.

At some point the alleged shooter’s name comes over the walkie-talkie. There’s an audible gasp in the room as we recognize one of our student’s names. I know him. Not well, I never had him in class, but I know him. I also know a bit of the background and why he might have targeted the library. For the second time that day I briefly think about what I would’ve done/would be doing right now if I’d been in my office instead of the main office.

I’ve thought about this a lot since. As everyone present that day probably has. I’ve come to the conclusion that my being in my office would’ve either had no effect whatsoever, or possibly would’ve made it worse. The first shots (along with the last one) were the ones that mattered. I imagine I would’ve reacted like others that heard them. Most people initially thought the first shot was either a book being dropped on the floor, or maybe a locker being slammed. By the second and third shot people started to realize what was going on.

Like the media specialist and media clerk next door in the library, I probably would’ve started heading from my desk to the hallway to see what was going on. Unlike them, the distance from my desk to the hallway is not very far.

What would I have done next? I imagine the initial lockdown announcement was still at least 15 or 20 seconds in the future. Would I have been aware enough to shut my door, turn off the light, and lockdown in my office? Would I have gone into the hallway, figured out what was going on, and tried to grab any students I saw and pull them into my office? Would I have gone into the hallway and started toward the library entrance, which is maybe 30 feet away?

Claire was already injured. No matter what I would’ve done my actions wouldn’t have changed that. As it played out, no one other than the shooter was injured after this point. If I had started toward the library, it’s likely that I would’ve been approaching at the same time as the shooter. Would anything have changed?

In every scenario that I play through my head either nothing changes or things change for the worse. If the shooter ignored me and I turned around (the most likely scenario), nothing would’ve changed. If the shooter saw me and decided I was a worthy target, then things could’ve changed for the worse. (Not just for me, it might’ve kept him in the hallway longer and changed his next destination, and the ultimate outcome.) If the shooter was slightly ahead of me and entered the library and I followed him trying to do something (unlikely), then things could’ve changed for the worse. (Instead of firing, missing, and then quickly ending his own life, I might’ve distracted him and more students might have been hurt.)

Perhaps this is all just to make myself feel better, to convince myself I couldn’t have changed anything, but those are the conclusions I’ve come to. I questioned whether I should even share this - is this just self-indulgent? But, in the interest of sharing my thoughts and feelings, I ultimately decided to share.

Keeping in mind how fluid information is when events like this are happening, and how often the initial information is either incomplete or just wrong, I decide to make another comment since we have students in the room. I say something like, “We don’t know if that information is accurate. Please don’t share that information with anyone yet.” Someone else says, “No texting [that information out]”.

Later we would find out how quickly the information had already spread, and it had nothing to do with the message that came over the walkie-talkie. Multiple students saw the shooter and shared that information via text and social media. Some students in many locked-down classrooms (most?) knew the shooter’s name very quickly.

Another undetermined amount of time passes.

At some point another request came over the walkie-talking: could someone please shut off the fire alarm? The secretary and I look at each other again. The shutoff for the fire alarm is also out in the main office, by the front desk, near the PA system. We again exit the lockdown room, and run to the receptionist area. The secretary presses the two PA buttons and then proceeds another few feet to the alarm panel, where she proceeds to silence the fire alarm. The sound stops, but the lights continue flashing. Only the alarm company or the fire department can stop the lights. As soon as the fire alarm sound stops I pick up the PA microphone and make another announcement. I say something like, “Remain in lockdown. Please remain in lockdown. Thank you.”

It’s amazing to me how the brain works so much on auto-pilot. “Please” and “Thank You” were surely not necessary, or even intentional, they just came out.

We race back to the lockdown room, announce ourselves, open the door and enter, and close the door behind us.

We have no idea what is happening, still have no idea that it’s essentially over, but from the tone of the last request on the walkie-talkie I think we all have a sense that perhaps the worst has passed. It has . . . and it hasn’t.

We start to hear more noises through the walls. Lots of voices shouting and sounds of movement. It sounds like what we were expecting to hear next - lots of law enforcement personnel moving throughout the building. Because the room we’re in is on the edge of the main office, adjacent to both the cafeteria and a hallway, we hear lots of activity. Probably because we’re in the relatively secure main office, it’s still quite a while before those voices get closer.

At some point I decide to say something again. Apparently I have no ability to control my need to feel in control, but at least this time I’m not trying to make a joke. I address myself to the students in the room (still not knowing how many there are) and explain to them what is likely happening, and that eventually they will come to our door and help us evacuate. I say something about they’re likely to be talking loud, but not to be frightened, and to make sure to keep your hands visible and move slowly and deliberately.

On days when I’m feeling charitable toward myself, I congratulate myself on handling this well. On other days I think I was probably just talking to make myself feel better.

The voices get really loud. Clearly they have now entered the main office and are going room to room. They come to our portion of the main office last. They pound on the door and announce themselves as law enforcement and ask if anyone is in there.

The secretary and I look at each other again. We’re closest to the door, but this goes against our training. We’ve been explicitly trained not to open the door, even if they announce themselves as law enforcement. Instead, they are supposed to open the door themselves with a key, we’ll see they are law enforcement, and then proceed from there.

This is the only thing that day that I was part of that didn’t go according to our training.

We stay silent, like we’re supposed to. They keep pounding, identifying themselves, and asking if anyone is in there. The secretary and I make eye contact again and finally decide we should say something otherwise they are either going to leave or break down the door, so we answer them.

Even though it was against our training, it seemed pretty obvious that it actually was law enforcement. Lots and lots of voices and sounds of movement, and members of different agencies identifying themselves. If it was a ruse, it would’ve had to have been extremely well done.

They ask us to open the door. The secretary does and we see men in appropriate gear who smile at us reassuringly. They ask if everyone is okay, then explain that they will be evacuating us soon, but not yet (they were still setting up the secure pathway for the evacuation from our area). They tell us to remain where we are and shut the door. We still hear lots of shouting and movement in the immediate area. Three or four minutes later they announce themselves again and we open up.

I’m not sure if it’s now or if it was earlier, but at some point we ask for the names of the students in the room and write them down, figuring that it’s going to be chaos and at some point it might be good to be able to say they were safe. It turns out we didn’t need that information. At some point I’ve also managed to get texts out to my wife, my daughter and my brother saying I’m fine. It takes several tries to get them to send as the cell towers are overwhelmed.

They identify themselves again, and again ask to make sure everyone is okay. We assure them that we are. The lead deputy/officer/agent/whatever (I don’t remember what agency he was from anymore) explains what’s going to happen next. He apologizes, but says that they are going to have to pat each one of us down just to make sure we aren’t involved. He asks us to stand up with our hands in the air and keep them in the air.

We then exit the conference room one at a time. We get patted down in the hallway and then asked to line up along the wall as they pat everyone else down. Once we are all patted down he asks who is the “senior person” here. We’re not completely sure how you define that, but the secretary is first in line so she speaks up and the rest of us are thankful. He addresses her but really all of us and asks us to count off so that we know how many of us there are.

This is when I find out there were 16 of us in that conference room.

He tells the secretary that it’s her job to check when we reach the evacuation site to make sure that all sixteen of us make it there. He explains that we are going to be escorted across the cafeteria and then outside of the building. I don’t recall for sure, but I don’t think he tells us that we’re headed for the track area, just that we’ll be escorted to safety. He tells us to walk, stay calm, stay close to the person in front of you, and to follow directions. He also tells us we need to keep our hands up the entire time.

A different officer escorts us across the cafeteria. There are multiple law enforcement officers in the cafeteria and we’re headed toward one in the Northwest corner of the cafeteria. I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s 1:42 pm. We’ve been in lockdown for a little over an hour. Seemed much longer.

We make it to the Northwest corner of the cafeteria and the next officer. We’re told to wait for a minute. We are then escorted out through the hallway next to the social studies office (at least that’s what I remember, I’m pretty sure we didn’t exit out through the cafeteria doors). We exit the building. I can no longer recall if we stayed on the sidewalk up by the building or walked out toward the driveway that goes behind the boiler room. I think we went behind the boiler room, but I’m not sure.

We pause once or twice. During one of these pauses the officer in the front tells us we can put our hands down. Those of us in the front of the line hear him and put our hands down. The folks further back still have their hands up. At some point I realize that and pass the message back. We proceed slowly toward the track.

As we approach the track, we pass another officer who tells us to put our hands back up. Several lines of students/staff are approaching at the same time. We form into two or three lines and get patted down again, then “released” to the north end of the track. There are hundreds of students and maybe two dozen staff members already there, with a few more coming. And lots and lots of law enforcement.

I talk to a few staff and students who are closest to me, but mostly just turn and look back at the school. Some folks are still being evacuated, but it appears as though most people are already out. I’m reassured that things seem pretty calm and orderly, and I don’t see any running, shouting, or smoke. I text my wife again and let her know I’m on the track and “helping” with the evacuation and I’ll let her know more later when I know something.

Everyone’s talking about what they know (or don’t know), how they’re doing, asking what’s happening, what are we going to do next. For the first time I hear (from students) the name “Claire.” I also hear the name “Karl” for the second time (the first time was over the walkie-talkie).

I talk with another teacher whose husband also teaches in the building - she hasn’t heard from him yet. He was teaching in our portable classroom (we have two classrooms in a modular portable) and we don’t know if he was evacuated somewhere else or is still in lockdown or what. I talk briefly with a social studies teacher. I have his daughter in class. He hasn’t heard from her yet, but he knows what class she was in and that it was relatively far from the action.

Later I would also think about his wife, who’s an elementary teacher in our district. How hard must it be for her to be in lockdown with her kids, plus know her daughter and husband were both at AHS? Later I would hear she was actually at a conference that day, but got a call from a friend.

I see another staff member with their own child. The secretary who had been in lockdown with me has found her daughter. She’s with one of my students who is the daughter of another teacher at my school.

I think about all the teachers at school who also have children at school, and how much worse that would’ve made this. I think about how for the next four years that could be me.

We’ve disturbed the geese. At this time of year there are hundreds of geese out on our athletic fields, and we’ve upset them. There must be at least 250 geese flying and squawking overhead. It just adds to the surreal aspect of all of this.

I’m having random thoughts about the probability that at least some of us are going to be hit by goose droppings, and then further inappropriate concerns that the helicopters flying overhead might be in danger of getting tangled up with the geese.

I talk with various students, some of who I know and some I don’t. They all seem to be doing well, considering. I spot a few of my Algebra students in the crowd and make my way to each of them that I can and check on them briefly. I again try to use humor to make them (me?) feel better, so I tell one of them that he can’t use this as an excuse not to study for his final this weekend.

As soon as I said it I realized how stupid the comment was (not the first and, as you’ll see, not the last one I’d make that day). Thankfully, the student took it the way it was intended and smiled. I thought about telling him that we probably wouldn’t be having finals next week (if ever), or even any semblance of regular school, but decided I shouldn’t since I didn’t know for sure what would be decided.

I’m talking with an assistant principal who indicates that he’s being told we’re going to walk across the fields toward University and board buses to get evacuated to another school where we’ll be picked up. He’s not sure when it’s going to happen, but he thinks pretty soon. Shortly after that the word goes out to try to gather all the faculty that are on the track in one area for instructions. Those of us in the front walk through the crowd asking for faculty to come to the front and we have a quick meeting.

As an aside, the track was just one of many gathering places for evacuees. Many were across the street on the east side of the building in the Burger King parking lot, many were across the street on the south side of the building by King Soopers (and eventually Shepherd of the Hills which ended up being one of the pickup places for parents), and of course some kids just walked home or saw their parents in the crowds that were forming and joined them.

Law enforcement addresses the gathering of teachers and indicates that each teacher who has a class out on the track needs to get them together to prepare for evacuation via the buses. I don’t say anything, but my first thought is unprintable and basically I think that’s a hopeless cause. But we fan out through the kids and spread the message, and within 5 minutes it’s basically done. I mentally apologize to law enforcement - and our students - for doubting them.

Throughout this entire event our students were amazing. They handled things well, remained amazingly calm overall, followed directions and tried to help those around them. The Sheriff would tell us on Monday that not one person was injured in the evacuation. Not one. He indicated he would’ve thought ahead of time that was impossible with a situation like this and over 2300 people on campus.

After we get the kids organized by class (and those kids who weren’t in a class at the time gathered together), we wait. The sun has gone behind some clouds and it’s starting to get cold. Thankfully it’s not very windy. I think to myself how lucky we were that this didn’t happen 4 or 5 days ago when it was below zero and windy. That would’ve been a nightmare.

This was the first of several times that I’ve thought how “lucky” we were that day. Lucky that the weather was pretty good. Lucky that it was 5th period on a Friday when the majority of our students are in class, which means fewer unscheduled students in the library or the hallways. Lucky that the Arapahoe Singers, who were doing their annual caroling tour of the halls hadn’t made it to the west end, because not only would they have been at risk, but often classes come to the hallway to listen. Lucky that room N13, which is attached to the library, didn’t have a class that period. It’s the only period on Friday when it doesn’t have a class. Not only did that mean fewer students in the vicinity, but at least one student who was in the media center at the time exited through that room. If a class had been in there, the door would’ve been locked. Lucky that - for whatever reason - the shooter decided to end it so quickly after his primary target left the building. Lucky (personally) that one of my assistant principal’s asked the day before to schedule a meeting with me in the main office 4th or 5th period, and I picked 5th.

Each time I question myself about the use of that word. How could anything be “lucky” about this? Am I being disrespectful or unfeeling when I use that word (either mentally or in writing)? I hope not. I decided to use it here because I’m trying to be completely honest and open about my thoughts and feelings.

Since I don’t have a class, I continue to hang out on in the middle of the track, at the edge of our students, in between the students and the mass of law enforcement officers (and the building). Several times I talk briefly with the assistant principal who’s there and trying to facilitate whatever is going to happen next, as well as keep an eye on any students (or staff) on the track who might need assistance.

During one of those conversations I look down and see what appears to be blood spatters on his pants. I look up and tell him he’s going to need some new pants. He glances down, then looks up, and says, “Yeah.”

I’m very thankful that he didn’t take my head off for such an inane question. Especially when I later find out that he helped tend to Claire before the paramedics arrived. This particular assistant principal has also seen way more than his fair share of tragedies over the years, and has held more than one dying student in his arms. And I’m talking to him about his pants.

Eventually we are told that we are about ready to take kids to the buses. They’ve changed their minds, instead of hiking across the field to University, they are bringing the buses along Franklin next to the student parking lot and we’ll walk over there, which is much better. We get the classes that are closest to line up single file with their teacher in front, and then slowly walk one class at a time toward the buses. I finally get to feel a little bit useful as I help with that process. The buses are arriving one by one, so it’s a slow process, just a couple of classes at a time, then we wait for the next bus.

While this is happening, two more classes get led away from the building out to the track. They are just now getting evacuated. Turns out these are the two classes that were in the portable. For whatever reason, they weren’t evacuated until now. I spot the spouse of the teacher I was talking with earlier, so I text her that’s he’s okay and on the track (her class had already boarded the buses and been evacuated to a middle school).

Eventually all the classes on the track are evacuated via bus. There are still staff members and a few students who didn’t have a class remaining. We’re not sure what to do. Law enforcement asks if any of us saw or heard anything. Those that had they asked to step to one side so they could do a quick interview. Those who had not (that included me), stayed where we were.

Finally we’re told that we can go. It’s about 3:15 or so (I think) but it seems much later. We ask where we are allowed to go, since clearly we can’t walk back toward the school or toward our cars in the parking lot.

We - and students - ended up getting access to our cars on Saturday, which I thought was pretty darn fast.

After some discussion it’s decided that we can exit off the north end of the track onto Franklin, assuming the law enforcement officer there doesn’t stop us. He questions us, but lets us go past. I’m with the social studies teacher whose daughter I have in class and a science teacher. The social studies teacher lives just a few blocks away, so we’re walking to his house. We figure it’s far enough away that it’s probably not blocked off, and it isn’t, so our spouses can come pick us up (taking the long way around the roadblocks to get there).

While we’re waiting we turn on the news to see what we can find out. There’s not much more information available than we had before, other than lots of pictures and videos from different areas than we were in. They’re reporting that two students were hurt, plus the shooter who apparently shot himself. Initial reports are that one students had a minor injury, but that the other was at the hospital in “serious” condition. I breathe a sigh of relief, since that seems too good to be true. Only one student with serious injuries, and I knew “serious” condition wasn’t great, but was also a much better condition than “critical.” I began to think we might get out of this with some emotional trauma, but perhaps the only loss of life being the shooter.

It turns out that the other student wasn’t injured - at least physically - at all. It was Claire’s blood on her. It also turns out that Claire was not in serious condition, she was in critical condition.

I’m waiting for my wife and daughter to come pick me up at the social studies teacher’s house. I’d eventually find out the story of their afternoons.

For all of the 2300+ stories of people who were present at AHS that day, there are tens of thousands of people who were fairly directly affected who have their own stories, and hundreds of thousands (if not more) who would be affected more peripherally. I’ll perhaps touch on this later, but the community (local, state and beyond) response to this was nothing short of amazing.

Both my daughter (8th grade) and my wife (1st grade teacher) went into lockout (different than lockdown) that afternoon. They had no idea, of course, why there were going into lockout, or even if it was just a drill or if something was going on somewhere. Not only do we drill reasonably often, but lockouts happen more often than you might think. Robberies, car chases, domestic disturbances - all of these can cause lockouts in schools that are close. In this case, most of the south metro area went on lockout.

My daughter was sitting in her 8th grade language arts class about six miles south of AHS. They had just gone into lockout, but didn’t know why yet. At about the same time that her teacher was being told what the lockout was about, my daughter  found out on her own via other students. Her teacher tried to comfort her and took her down to the counselor who did the same. They then called my wife.

My wife (about 20 miles south of AHS) had been in lockout for a little while as well, but didn’t know why. After a little while another teacher came into her room and told her she needed to go talk to our daughter on the phone in the front office. My wife panicked a little and asked if something had happened at her school. The answer was no, Karl’s school. My wife ran to grab her phone before going to pick up our daughter.

She saw the text from me saying I was fine. (I had also texted our daughter, but she didn’t think to check her phone, partially because she’s so well trained not to get her phone out at school.) She had a brief conversation with our daughter’s school to work out the logistics of how to pick her up (since they were on lockout, how does she actually get entrance to the building). (There was already an officer at my wife’s school and he kindly offered to drive her and get her in as well, but that wasn’t necessary.) She drove to our daughter’s school to get her. At some point she tries to call me. That call actually made it through to my phone while I was in lockdown. I obviously couldn’t answer, but I tried to text her back saying I was still in lockdown. Unfortunately, I apparently hit one of the auto-text replies that says something like “Do you want to get together tonight?” That freaked her out, as she thought someone must have my phone. Eventually she got the text I intentionally sent and knew I was fine.

Our daughter calmed down some after my wife picked her up and they proceeded home to wait. My wife tried to get more information on what was going on as well as get information out to others that I was fine. (At some point a bit later I texted her and asked her to not only contact my family - which I figured she already had - but to put something out on Twitter since I know how that blows up. She did.)

When I was eventually able to call and tell them where to come pick me up, our daughter started to melt down again. She didn’t want to get in the car, she wanted to stay at home. My wife knew that was a bad idea, so eventually convinced her to get in the car. My daughter ended up calling my Mom from the car and talking for a while, which calmed her down. But then when they actually got to me she melted down again. The anxiety was just too much and she had to let it out. It was a very long car ride home, but by the time we got there she had calmed down a bit.

Since then she has had questions (don’t we all), but seems to be handling it fairly well. She’s had a few nightmares (haven’t we all), and she takes a long time to process, so we’ll see. After a few days she got up one morning and announced that she was still going to go to Arapahoe next year, and she wore nothing but Arapahoe clothing for the next week or so. I suggested to her that she certainly could, but that if she did she needed to be prepared to answer questions from people (she was wearing this to school and, eventually, on the plane trip to visit my family in Kentucky over break).

Turns out on the plane trip she just replied that “no, my Dad teaches there”, so then I got the questions :-).

When I got home we talked for a bit, played with the dog, and I got on the computer briefly to try to get some info and perhaps share some info out.

Twitter has been an interesting part of this for me. (Facebook, Instagram, and others too, have played a big role I’m sure, but I’m mainly a Twitter user so that’s what I’ve experienced.) I got a quick tweet out to follow-up on what my wife tweeted earlier, and then immediately tweeted something similar on the AHS twitter account.

And then I stopped and wondering if I should’ve done that. When social media was finally approved in my district (Twitter and Facebook), we developed a set of guidelines to generally follow and I was comfortable with those. But this situation was obviously different, and not something we had ever discussed (or I had ever thought about). What was the role of our Twitter and Facebook accounts in all of this? What was my role in using them? What responsibility did I have and what leeway did I have to make decisions about what to tweet?

I was acutely aware of both the importance and the risk of tweeting using the school account. While I always try to be thoughtful and careful about what goes out on those accounts, this was different. Our community was hurting. Our community was desperate for news. And I also knew that the tweets would be seen by a lot more people and that, depending on how things went in the long run, might be looked back at and analyzed and/or criticized. So should I tweet from the school account, or would it be better (certainly safer) not to?

After thinking about it for a bit I decided to cautiously tweet. (Again, looking back, I wonder if this was at least partially for my benefit, my need to do something.) The next tweet on the school account (5:07 pm) was heartfelt, and hopefully helpful. That was quickly followed by an informative tweet.

I then took a break to eat dinner, and then asked permission to watch the news. We generally don’t watch the news in front of our daughter, and especially didn’t want to do that tonight, so I asked if I could close the door and watch. She agreed. So I surfed the local channels to try to learn more, while also using my laptop to surf social media and websites as well. Interestingly, one of the local stations led one of their broadcasts by quoting that heartfelt tweet.

I started getting texts from my principal’s secretary. My principal was in a meeting with district folks talking about lots of things (as you can imagine), and they were finalizing plans for some kind of support meeting that night. The secretary asked me to stand by as they finalized details because they wanted me to tweet and post to Facebook. At 6:22 I tweeted there would be meeting at 7 pm for folks who need counseling support, and then at 6:30 with the location.

I returned to watching the television news and checking social media, and again a local television station (different one than before) now shared the information about the meeting I just tweeted out. I also heard on the news that we would not have school on Monday. I didn’t have any confirmation of that, but decided to tweet it anyway with the caveat that I didn’t have confirmation. I also came across a tweet from the Denver Post (I was searching Twitter for various phrases, but mostly “Arapahoe”) with a phone number for mental health services, so I retweeted that.

I was not hearing a whole lot of new information, except for one thing: they were now saying Claire (although they hadn’t named her yet) was in critical condition, not serious. My earlier relief thinking that we might get out of this with no deaths other than the shooter evaporated.

Later that evening staff received a communication from our superintendent (that also went out to the community at the same time) that included information about counseling services that would be available tomorrow (Saturday), so I tweeted out that information. After thinking about it for a minute, I decided since it went out to the public, I could upload it to Google Drive and link to it, so I did and tweeted that as well. Later that night I heard on the news that students and staff would be able to get their cars from the West lot beginning at 8 am tomorrow, so tweeted that as well.

Once the evening news shows were over (10:30 pm), I decided I better get some rest. I generally go to bed fairly early (this was late for me), so I hoped I’d be able to fall asleep quickly. As you might expect, it took a while, but eventually I fell asleep, but woke up early hoping for more - and hopefully good - information.

Saturday, December 14th, morning.

On Saturday morning I continued to tweet out what little information I was finding. There wasn’t much new information online or on tv, and we were not yet getting any new information from the district. I started noticing the prevalence of two new hashtags in my stream, #WarriorStrong and #ArapahoeStrong. Late in the morning I got a call from the district asking for the password for the school Twitter account. They asked me to put out one last tweet to direct people to the official district page for all further communication. (At the same time they removed my ability to update the school Facebook page.)

I wasn’t particularly upset by this then (or now). I understand the need of the district to try to make sure that only “official” and accurate information is coming out from district channels (and surely the school Twitter and Facebook accounts are official “district” communications in some form). But the one thing I am suggesting - both to our district and to other districts - is to consider using these channels better.

We are the “primary source document” for our community. While not everyone craves information in these situations, a certain percentage (I would say a large percentage) does. I completely understand the concerns about anything related to the investigation, but for basic information like I had been tweeting out I think these channels are a perfect way to help meet the needs of our community.

On Friday local media was all over the story, but by Saturday they were only covering it during regular newscasts (and later that day when the Sheriff’s office held a press briefing). At the time the district took over our social media accounts, our five local stations were broadcasting college basketball, Dew Tour (snowboarding), A Tale of Two Tigers, Sports Stars of Tomorrow, and Yu-gi-oh. The “emergency” district page hadn’t been updated in over fifteen hours.

Basic information regarding school being open or closed on Monday, what we were going to do about final exams, when students and staff could get their cars from the parking lot, and resources the district were making available to staff (they were making cash available for any staff whose purses/wallets/cell phones/etc. were still trapped in the building - some young staff might not have any other resources to pay for stuff) are all things that I think it’s helpful to get out there (and were not getting out there via other means). Even when there is no new substantive information, I think it’s helpful to tell people periodically that there’s nothing new.

I know this is complicated, and I’m not suggesting this is the most important issue schools and districts face in situations like this, but I think if districts are making emergency plans ahead of time, this is something to consider and plan for (whichever way you decide to go). Let’s utilize these “push” technologies we already have in place to help serve our communities in times of crisis as well as we do in calmer times.

Social media was also interesting in the way it quickly mobilized to support the Arapahoe community. Not only were #WarriorStrong and #ArapahoeStrong prominent, but people all over Colorado, the United States, and beyond began tweeting their support of the community, and Claire in particular.

I was now using my personal twitter account to both share information and retweet some of the support I was seeing.

The Arapahoe County Sheriff’s Department held a press briefing on Saturday afternoon. For the first time, they identified Claire Davis by name. Unfortunately, her condition was still critical. The Sheriff also stated that he would no longer say the shooter’s name, but simply refer to him as the shooter. (And, later, as “the murderer”.) He said he didn’t want to make the story about the shooter, but about Claire and the Arapahoe community. He also used the word “evil” multiple times.

I understand what the Sheriff was trying to do and, in some ways, I support it. Certainly I would rather have more of the focus being on helping Claire and the community. Yet from the time he stated this, I’ve also been uncomfortable with it. The “shooter” was also a student at Arapahoe; also a member of our community. While I certainly agree with not making him “famous” or somehow glorifying his actions, it doesn’t change the fact that Karl Pierson was one of our students. Not saying his name won’t change what he did. For me, using the word “evil” doesn’t really help, either.

As time has passed, my feelings on this are just as conflicted. While I don’t begrudge the Sheriff’s opinion or his intent, I still think it’s not the best approach. I realize that others will disagree. But I agree with what another AHS teacher said later, “I want to say Karl’s name.” I think if we want to understand and learn from this, we can’t pretend as if Karl didn’t exists. We have to look at his experience at AHS (and outside of it), and try to figure out what happened. And we have to realize that his friends and family are mourning as well. The Davis family has come to the same conclusion. The response of the Davis family has been nothing short of amazing.

Sunday, December 15th

Sometime on Sunday we received word about our schedule for the following week. On Monday the AHS staff would have a meeting at another district building. On Wednesday staff would be allowed back in the building. On Thursday and Friday students would be allowed back in the building one class at a time.

I was really glad to hear this. I was worried that for various reasons they might not allow anyone back in the building until after winter break. I thought it was really important for both staff and students to not only get back in the building to get their stuff, but to see each other. I worried the longer we waited, the worse everyone would feel, and the harder it would be to return to school.

Monday, December 16th

On Monday the staff met for about three hours. We heard from our superintendent, our administration, the Arapahoe Sheriff, and our district Student Support Services folks. It was a very good, but very emotional, day. We received some additional information, comforted each other, and made plans for how to help the students on Thursday and Friday.

I was impressed with the Arapahoe County Sheriff (despite my concerns with some of his word choices). He updated us with current information (at least what he was allowed to share), gave us some advice to take care of ourselves (and our students), and answered questions to the best of his ability.

He also said something that I think is important. He said that me misspoke on Saturday. On Saturday he said that Claire was “in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Today he said, “Claire was exactly in the right place. She was exactly where she belonged. She was at AHS, she was there to learn, to grow. She was just there at an unfortunate time.” Some folks may see that as just semantics, but I think it is an important distinction.

Wednesday, December 18th

Staff is allowed back in the building. The building was in very good shape. The library was closed and off-limits, but everything else was ready to go. As they had warned us, it did look a bit weird because it was as if time had stopped. All the students’ stuff was still on their desks in the classrooms, whatever teachers’ had out on their desks was in the same place. That part actually wasn’t that weird for me. As teachers, we fairly often walk into our classrooms and see something like that (after going to an assembly, or a presentation, or the computer lab, or similar). I think the part that was a bit eery for me was still seeing PowerPoint or Google Presentations still up on screens, mid-presentation. It was emotional, and tough for a lot of folks, but I think it was a good day.

Thursday, December 19th

Roughly half of our students returned to the building. Students returned by class (Seniors, Juniors, Sophomores, and Freshmen), with each class getting a two-hour window. Today was Seniors first, then Juniors. They returned to the class they were in when we went into lockdown, to retrieve their stuff and to touch base with their teacher. They they could spend as much time in the building as they wanted to.

As our principal told us, it’s their building.

Most students went to their class and then their lockers, then met up with each other and their teachers, and walked the building. It was a very good day. Some crying, some laughing, lots of hugging. It was very good to have the students back in the building.

Friday, December 20th

Sophomores and then freshmen came in today. Same story as yesterday: it was really good to have the students back. Because I teach just one section of Algebra, with all freshmen, this was when my current students returned to the building.

I had called all of my students’ parents the night before to see how the students were doing and whether they had any concerns about returning to school. Most of them were doing well, but a few expressed concerns. Our guidance department had started a Google Form where we could submit names of anyone who we felt might need some extra attention, so I submitted those students names. (I had already submitted a few other folks’ names as well.)

On Friday I tried to see as many of my 29 Algebra students as I could. The night before I had written down which class they were in for the lockdown, so I hung out by one of the entrances and grabbed a few of my students as they came in, then made my way around the building looking for all the others. One of my students was out of town, but I managed to find 26 of the 28 that came that day (and verified with their teachers that the other two made it and seemed okay).

Was that for my students, or was that for me? I’m not sure it matters.

Now we were on Winter Break. I communicated via email with my parents and students regarding our tentative schedule for the week back, as well as asking them for information about whether they wanted to take their first semester final exam for Algebra after we came back or not. (We had decided to make final exams optional - students could choose to take them if they wanted to, or they could simply keep the grade they had.)

Saturday, December 21st

The call finally came. Claire died. It wasn’t a surprise, but we had been holding on to hope anyway. By this point the district had returned the school’s Twitter and Facebook account to me. I had been mostly sharing out some basic information and the amazing support we were receiving from around the world, but especially from other high schools in the Denver metro area. Not really knowing what to do, I simply tweeted words of support and a link to counseling resources on our website. I also emailed all the parents of my students reminding them of the counseling available to them as well as my contact information if they or their student needed to talk.

Lots and lots (and lots) of decisions were being made by my school administration and by the district over the next few weeks. I had some peripheral duties related to the website, getting information out about Claire’s Memorial Service, and a few other things, but mostly I just tried to stay on top of social media, sharing support from other folks.

Monday, December 23rd

A small group of teachers and administrators from Columbine High School offered to meet with any of the AHS staff who were available and interested to share their experiences. A small group of us spent a little more than two hours at Columbine, and it was good. We talked about how to support our students and a lot about how to support ourselves, and our families. They said as educators it’s really easy for us to focus on helping the students, and put aside taking care of ourselves and our families.

The focus on not forgetting to take care of ourselves wasn’t a surprise, but I guess I hadn’t really focused on how rough this could be for our families as well (despite the fact that my daughter had struggled so much with it initially). So it was good to get that reminder.

December 25th - 31st

We go to Kentucky to visit my family. It was good to get away. Our daughter chose to wear an Arapahoe sweatshirt jacket on the trip out (she had pretty much been wearing AHS gear every day since the incident). I told her it was perfectly fine but, as I’d indicated all the previous days, she had to be prepared to answer questions from folks who were curious. Several folks were, but she just said her Dad taught there and looked at me, so I got the questions instead :-). She wore the same sweatshirt jacket on the way back to Colorado.

January 1st, 2014

Claire’s Memorial Service and Celebration of Life was today. Even though I knew I would be back in town in time, I decided not to get tickets for it (there was no charge for tickets, but you had to get them ahead of time.) Initially I thought I would go to be supportive, but then decided it was probably more important to spend the time with my family. As it turns out, I ended up watching most of it streamed live over the web. I’m not sure if not going was the right choice or not.

After the memorial service was when I finally made the decision to start writing this. As the Davis family stated, we should try to learn from this. I hope in some small way this might help someone, somewhere, sometime. There’s more to say, and I may eventually write more, but I’ve run out of steam.

The Arapahoe High School Community Fund Honoring Claire Davis