First Person

Why I transformed my sixth grade science class into a coding class, and how you can too

Like many middle school science teachers, I’ve spent more time talking about rocks and minerals than I care to discuss.

As a sixth-grade science teacher at Excellence Girls Charter School, an Uncommon school, earth science was an important part of my work. And throughout my career, I have found ways to make those lessons engaging: One day, students were handed a top-secret mission from NASA to create a planet similar to Earth, requiring them to learn about the interior of our planet, its atmosphere, and the water, carbon, and nitrogen cycles. Another day, the students walked into a classroom filled with fog. They could barely find their desks, and that’s how they learned about cumulus clouds.

Still, I questioned whether those topics were the best use of my students’ time.

It was difficult to give students a real answer about how the curriculum would affect their futures, especially for the ones who might opt to go down a technical track after high school. Not that there aren’t plenty of careers in health and environmental sciences they might choose from, but I wanted to equip them with knowledge that would create tangible career options for every single one of them.

A few years ago, I read an article about a homeless man who learned how to code and got a job at Microsoft without a college degree. I thought, “My students love technology. If he can learn to code and springboard himself into a lucrative career, so can they.” That’s when I started a coding club in my school in North Carolina.

There was one problem: I didn’t know the first thing about how to code.

The night before each club meeting, I would practice lessons on Codeacademy and then teach them to my students. We fell in love with coding together.

Many of the students that hadn’t performed well academically in the past did extremely well in coding club. They also started showing up to my science class fully engaged. They had found a class where they could see a future for themselves. Still, I was troubled that the girls almost seemed to feel out of place.

I started at Excellence Girls Middle Academy one and a half years ago, and yes, I started out teaching rocks and minerals. My principal, a former science teacher, is amazing and loves math and technology. She immediately agreed that we needed a coding enrichment initiative, and I started my coding club there with 20 girls.

The girls in the club were fearless. They exuded confidence that they could do anything and be anyone. Being surrounded by each other, it was a no-brainer to them that women could be programmers.

In my coding brain, this means: < if girls == fearlessness && excellence> < Girls + coding == empowerment >. How could I deny any of my students this opportunity?

At the end of my first year at Excellence Girls, I told my principal I couldn’t teach rocks and minerals anymore, and that I could only stay if we replaced my earth science class with a computer science class.

She agreed. I found a summer fellowship that the Flatiron School was offering in partnership with Teach For America, and since I was a TFA alumnus, I got to learn to code for free. I now have a solid foundation in Ruby on Rails, HTML, and CSS, and I teach 87 girls an introduction to computer science course full time.

My point is not to draw more attention to what I’m doing or to downplay the importance of more traditional subjects.

But I see my coding class as giving students an important opportunity they might not otherwise have: to grow comfortable enough to pursue coding in the future, which could lead to in-demand career options for them and more much-needed diversity in the tech sector.

I’m inspired to see the mayor rolling out the Computer Science For All initiative over the next 10 years, and it’s great to see Teach For America getting involved. But I urge teachers not to wait for the city’s initiatives to reach their schools. You don’t have to be a part of TFA to do this either. Just start a coding club at your school this year.

I know firsthand how unnerving it can be, especially if you don’t have any coding experience. Turn to organizations like ScriptEd, New York on Tech, and the iZone, which provide free lesson plans and tools. If you want your students to be exposed to other people of color in STEM fields, my blog POCIT (People of Color in Tech) provides interviews with people with diverse backgrounds.

It’s possible to turn sixth-grade science class into a place that engages students now, and helps them engage with their futures.

First Person

How I stopped wishing for ‘seventh-period flu’ and came to love my first year teaching

PHOTO: Richard Delmendo
The author, Autumn Jones, in her classroom.

Ubaldo and I had a rough start.

Ubaldo is a lanky eighth-grade boy. He prides himself on baseball, basketball and disrupting classes.

He also refused to do any work in my journalism class. He ditched one day, was tardy the next two. He asked to go to the bathroom constantly. We went up the “discipline ladder” daily.

I struggled big time with Ubaldo and his entire class. We dealt with plagiarism, disruptions, and an overall lack of participation. In anything. At all. I started calling them my “dead fish” class. Actually, I think dead fish would have been better.

Every day, I walked out of that class defeated. I thought about finding a weeks-long movie and playing it for the rest of class. I desperately wanted to come down with the seventh-period flu.

One morning, Ubaldo was due in my room for a follow-up conversation about his latest blowup. He shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes when I asked him what was going on in class. The only thing he could land on was that he was bored and didn’t want to be a journalist. He wanted to be in gym.

At that point, I stopped. I turned the conversation to my initial stories as a writer. I pulled up the first list of obituaries I wrote for the Gonzaga Quarterly (now Gonzaga Magazine) and I showed him those short little blurbs  —  someone’s name, date of birth, date of death, location and not a whole lot else. They weren’t the most exciting thing to write, I told him, but they helped me learn the structure of storytelling and AP Style.

Next, I pulled up some feature obituaries  —  stories that told more about a person’s life, their family, their hobbies, their impact on the world  —  at which point Ubaldo said, “You only wrote stories about dead people?”

After we both laughed, I told him, “No, but this is how I got my start as a writer.”

We went on to have a conversation about how things start out  —  in sports, in academics and in life  —  and how those things, like the first obituaries, provide the structure we can later expand from. I told him that we have to know the rules before we can break them. He liked that part.

We had a much longer conversation that morning. We didn’t spend much time on his outburst in class the day before. Instead, we talked about his pending high school acceptance, his family and his fears of being deported. His sister, a senior in high school, is a part of the government’s Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program. In the current climate, that feels like it poses a huge risk for their entire family. He is afraid. Many of his friends are, too.

At the time, Ubaldo didn’t know where he was going to high school. (Denver allows students to apply to their choice of high school.) Getting into a good high school could be the ticket to higher education and a ticket to a better life for himself and his family. At 13 years old, Ubaldo faces far more uncertainty in his daily life than many of us face in the entirety of life.

That conversation changed how I approached my classroom. Ubaldo wasn’t causing chaos out of spite. Quite the opposite actually. Ubaldo, like every other student at my school, needs someone to listen, someone to care, someone to respond to the difficulties he is facing.

I wish I could say that particular classroom dynamic got better overnight. Or that, in an instant, some of my kids decided they were going to be journalists in their future careers. That didn’t happen.

It was a struggle until the end with that class, but Ubaldo bought in. More importantly, I bought in, too.

I showed up and I continued to teach. I pumped that class full of goofy activities and relationship-building exercises, despite the eye rolls. I shared more of my life story, even when it felt like there wasn’t an ounce of empathy anywhere in those four walls.

I now have a new group of seventh and eighth graders in my journalism class, a group that is talkative, friendly, excited and enthusiastic about the material and each other. That’s given me another insight: There are students  —  maybe entire classes  —  who are not going to love the content of my classes. There are also students who are going to buy in to such an extent you can see them working in media production, coding the next great news website or becoming a future New York Times columnist.

Regardless, my classroom will regularly be a space where preteens are looking for affirmation, assurance and love. That I can give.

A few weeks ago, in front of about 200 families, teachers and kids, Ubaldo presented a sports broadcast video he created for my class. He was one of two students to select the most difficult option for a project-based learning assignment. And Ubaldo got into one of the best high schools in Denver.

I know it doesn’t always work out that way. Not everyone gets to experience such a quick turnaround in behavior, attitude or academics. But it did this time, and, whether it happens one or 100 more times, it’s what will keep me coming back to the classroom.

Autumn Jones is a teacher at Marie L. Greenwood Academy, a 1st-8th grade school in Denver Public Schools where she teaches journalism, digital media and online safety. She previously worked in marketing, public relations and journalism and volunteered with CU Boulder’s Public Achievement program.

First Person

How I learned not to be ‘that mom’ — while keeping up the good fight for my son with a learning disability

The author and her son.

Each day, I do all in my power to fight the “good fight” for my son. I was his first teacher, after all.

But it hasn’t always been easy to know the right way to fight it.

In early 2016, my son was diagnosed with dysgraphia, a learning disability similar to dyslexia. Instead of manifesting itself in his reading ability, it was identified by his inability to write. This is a difficult situation for a school, especially pre-diagnosis. When a child is able to verbally articulate content but has limited capacity to express those ideas in written form, teachers often label that child as lazy, unmotivated, volitionally unwilling to engage.

Post-diagnosis, though, there is support available for students who struggle to overcome a learning disability, from individual education plans to resource teachers and and technology assists. For my son, however, these tools did not materialize.

It was lonely, trekking to and from school with suggestions from a learning therapist and watching them go unimplemented. As a mother, more than a few other emotions colored the experience: frustration, exhaustion, confusion, anger.

These feelings were especially acute as I realized his school was not adjusting the way they taught or interacted with my son, despite the policy and legislation that said they must.

A former teacher and administrator, I know all too well how easy it is for a parent to place blame on teachers. I know, too, that it takes effort to work with a student’s learning disability — effort that was not on display in his classroom.

Why? Had I turned into “that mom,” the one whose email address or phone number’s very appearance on a screen makes a teacher want to throw their phone off a cliff? Did they not like my son? Was he really not trying? What was I doing wrong?

Anger and self-doubt were not helping my son or the situation at his school. I want to fight the good fight for him, and, to me, that means making sure the transition to understanding and meeting the needs of his dysgraphia is a positive one. For him, for his school, for me.

I was determined to cut through the fog of inaction and use it to teach my son about perseverance. It is a parent’s responsibility to be involved, to embrace the struggle, and to demonstrate how collaboration and cooperation can yield much, much more than anger, blame, or avoidance ever will.

With this understanding, I had to pivot. I had to be resourceful and strategic, and to listen to my instincts as a parent. I wouldn’t lay in wait to ambush teachers as school let out or escalate every incident to the principal’s level, but neither would I take no for an answer.

I would, however, continue to educate the staff about dysgraphia; share promising strategies for supporting students with learning disabilities; inform other parents of the school’s legal obligations and responsibilities; volunteer as often as possible to develop positive relationships with those who watched over my son’s education; and celebrate the successes and discuss the challenges with everyone involved.

We are all familiar with the proverb, “It takes a village to raise a child.” But for parents, especially, it can be helpful to acknowledge that not all villagers share their same level of commitment to their child. It can sometimes be on us to fill in knowledge gaps and help other adults adapt to new roles when a child needs support — to enlist fellow soldiers to join us in the good fight on behalf of those who are not yet able to do so.

Amy Valentine is the director of the Foundation for Blended and Online Learning, and previously served as executive director of three virtual schools in Colorado.