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When a teacher says that they can't do something, I'm not likely to believe that it's because they literally can not do what is being asked of them. A more probable interpretation is that something they would need to be able to do what is asked is missing. For example, a few years back I arrived in my classroom just days before the start of the school year to find a stack of Words Their Way manuals on my back table with instructions from my district that I was to teach the Words Their Way curriculum that year with my fifth grade students. After sitting with the manual for an hour, trying desperately to wrap my head around the routines, the time requirements, and the prep time, I went to my principal's office and simply said, "There's no way I'm going to be able to do this with only 3 days to prepare." I had fallen off the cliff and landed in the dreaded chasm of can’t and won’t. I'm certain that I could have approached that situation with more of a growth mindset. And today I have come to believe that the Words Their Way curriculum is highly beneficial for students, and a great way for teachers to be more efficient in their instruction of language concepts. However, at the time, all I could think of was what was missing: TIME. Time for my students to engage in word sorts and games every day, as called for by the curriculum. Time to prepare for all of the groups that would inevitably come out after the diagnostic assessment. Time to wrap my head around the sometimes complex lessons and explain them well, assess them accurately, and provide sufficient guidance to my students. It wasn't that I couldn't, it was that I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to do it well with the limited time I had.
In that moment, my principal could have fallen off the cliff too and interpreted my "can't" as a "won't." On the face of things, it did look a bit like a refusal to comply with a district initiative. She could have reprimanded me, or told me "tough luck." Luckily, in the conversation that followed, she recognized that my "can't" meant something much more complex. She saw the grey area in my "can't" and refused to interpret it as a “won’t.” She heard me when I said that there was a time issue, looked at the materials and my schedule with me, and helped me come up with a way to modify the materials to at least get started with the process of understanding this new curriculum. By assuming positive intent, she threw me a rope so I could climb out of the chasm and together we were able to find a way forward.
That self-reflection she helped me engage in revealed something to both of us in that moment. It helped me realize that I really could give the materials a try and gave me permission to take my time to get it going. It also helped me build trust with my principal by showing me that I could express concern without reprimand or judgement. In that same moment my principal got to know something more about me. She learned that I cared deeply about doing things well and correctly, and that I didn't want to risk doing more harm than good to my students by not implementing this new curriculum with fidelity.
We can do better. If teachers, coaches, and administrators take time to communicate and listen carefully, to engage in dialogue and vigorous debate, and to assume positive intent in our colleagues, we can prevent the perpetuation of the misconception that teachers "can't" or "won't" comply. This is not the narrative that we want to share with the world, nor is it the story we want to believe of one another in our schools. School leaders, this simple exercise of coaching a teacher through a moment of overwhelmedness can and will have a significant impact on the culture of your school. I hope that the next time an exhausted educator enters your office you'll give them the chance to prove to you that they're willing to be pulled out of the chasm, if you'll only throw them a rope.
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