I liked to be liked.

This may be my most defining characteristic. In my personal life and in my professional life, I like to be liked.

I very much like to be liked.

Personally, this is a desire that I would like to manage better.

Professionally, it is a desire that I need to manage much better.

Wanting to be liked is not inherently a bad thing. I have worked with many people – teachers and administrators alike – who do not seem to care if they are liked. Some seem to revel in not being liked. Try as I might, I have never understood that perspective. I have a significantly negative reaction to it.

I have a strong reaction to my own desire to be liked as well. I wonder if it makes me a weaker leader. I wonder this often. 

Professionally, in my desire to be liked, I find myself slow-playing difficult information. I find myself avoiding saying hard things to others. I find myself equivocating when I should be direct.

These are not strong traits in a leader. 

My desire to be liked means I want everyone to be happy. That leads to a desire to be all things to all people. 

I know that I cannot be all things to all people and I tell myself trying to lead in this manner can result in my being all things to no one but myself. 

I believe my awareness of this challenge helps. But it only helps when I push myself through it to do hard things.

In these cases, the hard things typically involve disappointing others or letting others down. These are the hardest things for me.

I can do hard things. Pushing myself to do the hardest will make me a better leader.

I have served on many, many committees in my 30 plus years in education, some compulsory (new teacher cohorts), some formal (task forces, department chair teams, focus groups), and some informal (collections of teachers combining to fight whatever power needed to be fought). Over all that time, one committee stands out as the longest standing, the oddest, and the most fun of any of which I was ever a part. It is a committee whose membership rotated over the almost 20 years it was extant. It is a committee that, like most on which I have served, took itself way too seriously. It is a committee that I have been trying to reform years after its dissolution.

It is called The Facultones.

I remember Mike Capone, a teacher I worked with over 30 years ago, naming this particular committee. I remember (I think!) every member who has ever served on it. I remember the joy it brought – at least it brought joy to me. I remember humble beginnings. I remember moments of big aspiration. I remember guest members. I remember it annoying the hell out of a lot of people.

I remember so very much about The Facultones. 

I should. I wrote a highly fictionalized novel about it.

The Facultones was a faculty cover band started sometime in the 1990s by teachers at Regis Jesuit High School, though I think we were still calling the place “Regis” at that point. It spun out of a series of poetry slam/coffee house parties attended by faculty members and their spouses which can only survive when the participants are twentysomethings without children. We all were. 

The band went through iteration after iteration as members dropped in and dropped out, returned and departed. It played parties and weddings, at churches and coffee houses and theme parks. It cut a demo tape. It spawned spin off groups, side projects and the aforementioned novel.

The Facultones is my favorite committee of all time because the goal was simply to have fun – fun making music and fun playing for others. 

Being a part of it was a joy I truly miss.

This past spring, as I was sitting with faculty members for end of year conversations, I was asked, point blank, where I stood on cell phones in classrooms. The person asking me is a serious educator and deserved a serious and well considered answer.

Would that I had one.

We talked about the negatives. We talked about the positives. We talked about the distractions and the challenges. We talked about the practicalities. We talked about how they have changed our work. 

We talked. It was a great conversation. 

I did not take a stand on the issue in that chat. I am in my first year as principal at my school and I determined that I did not want my principalship defined by this issue.

This is not my principalship. This is my blog. This is a place that I write about what I believe to be true whether or not I am in a position to enact what I believe to be true.

Cell phones. Students should be allowed to have them on their persons in school.

In no particular order, this is what I think:

• Cell phones are crucial in emergencies. 
• Cell phones can be valuable educational tools and many apps our teachers require (yes, require) our students to use are designed for phones. Likewise, our digital platforms are accessible on their phones and enable students to be updated on school announcements, assignments, and other important communications.
• Allowing students to carry cell phones can teach them responsibility and self-discipline. We have a responsibility to help students learn how to use their phones appropriately.
• In an increasingly digital world, familiarity with technology is essential.  
• In some cases (in many cases?), having a phone can help students manage anxiety and stay connected with their support systems. It can provide a sense of security, knowing they can reach out to loved ones if needed.

These phones are tools. They are tools that are a part of our students’ lives. They are part of ours. 

I believe we have a responsibility to help our students engage appropriately with them. 

Should students have unfettered access? No. There should be guidelines. There should be times when phones are not in hands. There should be breaks from them. There should be restrictions. 

Phones should not be banned. They should be used. Effectively.

I understand this is easier written than done.

“It’s all about relationships.”

I have heard that the work we do in education revolves entirely around the relationships we have with students and parents and colleagues. I have seen Ted Talk after Ted Talk that espouses the same maxim. I have internalized the idea to such an extent that it feels as though it is my own. I have likely passed it off as such.

That the work we do is about relationships is a truism. 

The intent behind it is pure: educational professionals who recognize that their relationships with those they journey will define that very journey are better educators than those who do not share that understanding.

The catch here is that, when the importance of relationships is underscored, there is a presumption that we are in good relationships with others. Not only is this not always the case, this is not always something that an educational professional can control. 

Relationships are partnerships. How both parties in a relationship view the other defines the relationship itself.

What happens when the relationship is bad?

“It’s all about relationships.”

I am skeptical of any teacher who says they have always liked each and every one of their students. That strikes me as statistically impossible. I am also skeptical of any administrator who suggests they have never had a negative feeling about those they serve. 

Sometimes the relationship does not work, is not good, cannot function well.

What happens then?

“It’s all about relationships.”

When a relationship is broken, the educational professional must go to work. I do not believe in one way repairs in relationships. I do believe we can and should control how we react to those with whom our relationships are strained. While we are not always in charge of our thoughts, we are in charge of our actions and our words.

How we treat those we do not readily enjoy – those who know where each of our buttons are and are adept at pushing them – this defines us as professionals.

“It’s all about relationships.”

I believe there was a time, and I fully acknowledge that I am not immune to romanticizing the past, when a school administrator could count on her or his staff being solidly in place before the end of the school year and that that same staff would return intact in the fall. The hiring season for schools was the spring and there were prospects from which to choose. Moreover, once contracts were signed (oh, and we do not offer contracts at school anymore – there are now different documents for employment but that is another story), the staff would remain assembled for the duration of the school year except in very, very rare circumstances.

This is not the case any more.

There are myriad reasons for this significant shift in the ways in which schools do business. I believe this reframing of educational employment caught up with the Gig Economy of the rest of the job world and that forces encouraging it were in place long before the pandemic. I also believe that the pandemic accelerated the mindshift. Regardless of the cause, the truth is that the hiring season at a school is now year-round. Prospects are not always plentiful. Staff depart when they determine they must. 

What is a self-respecting administrator to do?

Keep recruiting. Keep interviewing. Keep working. These are the obvious answers.

What I have found most challenging in this morass is the “July Resignation,” the one you do not see coming. Actually, sometimes you do see it coming, but the effect is the same. A late summer departure is a challenge. 

I have had staff quit on the last payday of the summer. That has felt calculated.

I have had staff come to my office to say “I have to quit unless you raise my salary.” I do not have that kind of power.

I have had people say “you are the reason I am leaving.” Ouch.

I have had staff resign via text and email. Classy.

Especially when that person is leaving a key position – is an AP teacher or a coach or someone who is singularly hard to replace, the desire to say exactly what I am feeling is strong.

I know I cannot remonstrate with the person leaving. To misquote Will McAvoy from The Newsroom, I do not have subpoena power. I cannot keep a teacher at the school. The “contracts” we sign may have some legal consequences if they are broken, but the work to unravel them is rarely worth the effort. I also cannot trash the teacher or administrator when they go, though that is sometimes incredibly difficult. 

I sometimes want to. Very much.

But who would that serve?

“I quit.” 

“I am sorry to see you go. How can I help you transition to your next stop?”

This seems the right approach to me. This is the approach I have settled on after surviving many instances of late spring and summer and late summer/early fall departures.

The school goes on. My ego might take a hit, but I will go on, too.