I clicked on this Edweek article last week and it stopped me in my tracks. I felt like the writer was talking specifically about me. The “you wouldn’t interrupt a firefighter” quote really hit home. It threw me for a loop. I'm not really sure how to feel about it frankly. Matthew Ebert has more than 20 years of experience in education, primarily focused on school leadership in urban settings. Now the founder of Ebert Educational Consulting, he has previously been a teacher, a director of academic innovation, an academy leader, and a school principal.
Speaking the truth when others aren’t ready to hear it can feel impossible. Engaging in difficult conversations can make your heart race and your mouth dry. However, if you’re going to build and curate a healthy organization, there will be times when leaders must tell the truth, despite it being the last thing they want to do. Leadership means being honest. Leadership means recognizing what people need even if it goes against the organization’s immediate need. Sometimes, it means telling an excellent teacher that it’s time to leave. Which brings me back nine years—to Michael. Michael was in his eighth year of teaching, and I had just become the principal of his school. He was smart, held high expectations, was an excellent teacher, worked incredibly hard, and had voted for me to get the job. He was also done teaching but didn’t know it yet. I saw it. Others did, too. Michael arrived early and left late. Every moment was urgent. Michael struggled in team meetings when folks didn’t agree with his positions. He once told the school secretary that he didn’t like being interrupted for questions about attendance during class because “you wouldn’t interrupt a firefighter.” Michael felt like he was fighting fires every day. We should all want someone with Michael’s passion teaching our kids. He expected the best out of himself and others at all times. Michael’s passion was a gift. That’s where Michael existed. All heart, all the time. His reality was one where the challenges of our community were personal. But without healthy limits, passion can destroy a person. Passion, especially in the daily struggle for educational equity, requires pacing. Michael and I established a relationship during our weekly one-on-one check-ins. We would talk about all manner of topics ranging from life to love to dogs and to teaching. We built trust and a mutual respect. We laughed. We commiserated. Michael knew that I cared about him, and I knew that he trusted me. Then, in the middle of the year, I told Michael that I thought he was done teaching—he just didn’t know it yet. Just like that. In no uncertain terms. It wasn’t easy. I was scared about the conversation and the implications. I was worried that my words would shatter the world that he had crafted for himself. I was nervous that it would create a rift in our community and would negatively impact our team. But I knew it had to be done. For Michael, for the team, and for the kids. I told him what I saw. His passion had overtaken his perspective and made him unable to see or sustain the big picture. He couldn’t continue existing like this, and, if he did, it would eventually hurt our kids, our adults, and him. He wasn’t healthy and he wasn’t happy. He deserved to be both. Michael was surprised by my remark. When we talked it through, he understood my perspective, even if he didn’t agree. We continued our wonderful relationship (which we still maintain). He completed the year with our school. Giving his all, every day. At the end of the year, a close friend offered Michael a teaching position at another school. Michael was conflicted about leaving. I encouraged him to go. He took the job. The next year, he left that school. Then, he went to one more. Then, he left teaching. He was done. He knew it. When Michael began his career, someone should have been honest and said, “The fire will still be there tomorrow.” You have to take care of yourself first. You have to prioritize your own needs, and we’re going to show you how. Leaders should have told Michael to slow down. To pace himself. To breathe. To pick his head up, look around, and understand that there is more to this life than his classroom. They should have told Michael that his best would look different each day because he was a living, breathing person. No one expected him or needed him to be perfect. They just needed him to be whole.
1 Comment
Lion
1/15/2025 09:00:15 pm
Wow. That is a great article... I can see how you identify with that story. I can even draw some parrellels between that article and my life as a student.
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