James Overton joined the ranks of school administrators yesterday. He’s an inspiring guy who inspired me to reflect on my eight years in administration; I expressed my thoughts in a blog post yesterday, and his response was really cool. And so, I write again.

Email is relentless. It’s certainly a useful medium but I look at it like water. In manageable portions, it’s great. In near-biblical deluges, it’s soul crushing. There are of course many levels in between.

Much as one of the first steps towards achieving enlightenment is the acceptance that life is suffering, administrators need to resign themselves to the inevitability of excess in email. There is hope, however, if you can stay on top of things. I keep in mind three tenets to help accomplish that goal; my success rate isn’t perfect, but I’m working on it:

1. The No Scroll Rule

In journalism you learn about white space, and how the human eye (the brain, really) finds a page more inviting to read if there is an abundance of white space. Not everyone who corresponds with you has taken a journalism class, however.

That solid wall of text of an email screed sucks the life out of you. I probably could have ended that sentence five words earlier, but our focus here is on managing the message. I find it best to share with stakeholders that I practice the No Scroll Rule; if I have to scroll down, chances are your email is a phone conversation disguised as the written word and I really shouldn’t read on. When I receive an unholy scroller, I typically respond with a quick sentence or two followed by, “Let’s catch up later this morning,” which helps to prevent immediate escalation of the issue.

The odds are strong that in the ensuing phone call, you will speak 8-10 words in the first ten minutes — take copious notes — but that time invested will help prevent a situation from getting out of control.

On a related note, do your staff and yourself a favor and keep your emails short. Limit yourself to 1-3 short paragraphs of objectively phrased, precise language and you are infinitely more likely to convey your intended message.

2. Keyboard Muscles

The digital world has enabled us to speak with greater bombast than we would ever dream of doing in person. There is that tendency, human nature really, to get very angry and say all the things we really want to say, and then realize after hitting send that perhaps some things are better left unsaid. You will receive those messages and your blood will boil. My recommendation? Call the sender out on it. Literally. I find a terse “We need to talk,” followed by the actual conversation as soon as possible to be most effective.

If it’s a parent, get on the phone ASAP and get to the core of the issue. I have found most people to be more reasonable on the phone or in person, but have also had people tell me that I have ruined their child’s life, and that certainly doesn’t feel particularly good, but it’s still better to get it out than let it fester.

Worst thing you can do? Let your fingers do the talking and respond in a way that is either defensive or hostile. Assume your every email is going to show up on social media or otherwise be disseminated to the public, and type accordingly.

3. The 24-Hour Rule

This one should be a staff-wide commitment. Respond to every email within 24 hours, excluding the time from dismissal on Friday through the start of the day on Monday (teachers should have a reprieve from work email for the weekend). Even if it’s a scrolling-required email or the 17th email of the week from that parent, at the very least, acknowledge receipt. That courtesy goes a long way towards engendering support, and also lets your audience know that you do care.

Sometimes you need to wait before responding, as well. I’ve received messages that challenged the limits of comprehension, and then kicked around the content on an evening run and realized “Oh, that’s what they meant!” I try to limit the amount of time I spend on emails at home, but will come back from running with a much greater degree of clarity that encourages a post-shower response.

A greater rule to consider is that everyone in your building wants to know they are being treated fairly and that you care. When you ignore an email, whether intentionally dismissive or with the best intention of crafting the most brilliant response ever, the implied message of your silence is “I don’t care.” It’s no fun digging out of that.

How to survive then? Maybe the key to enlightenment is appreciating that life is surfing, and we just need to ride the waves that come at us. Regardless, stay afloat and have fun!

 

James Overton joined the ranks of school administrators today. Through the power of EdCamps, Twitter, and professional training days, I have gotten to know Coach O much better than 4-5 in-person interactions would typically allow. He’s an inspiring guy who is destined to accomplish great things with his staff, students and their families. Today he inspired me to think about what I would have told a younger version of me on November 1, 2011.

One of my friends was told in a grad class that an administrator should never sit at his/her desk to do work while school is in session. I asked if this course was taught in a parallel universe in which days are 32 hours long, administrators have neither families nor the need to sleep, and email does not exist.

I keep my door open because I want to convey the message that I am here to help; to borrow from a Pearl Jam song, “I’m open.” I am also mildly claustrophobic, but let’s focus on this idea of being open. Your people need to know that you are there for them. There might be a concern about a student who has begun to deteriorate emotionally. There might a shortage of copies of Bud, Not Buddy in the bookroom. Someone might have taken their drink from the faculty fridge. A teacher’s husband might need to go back for additional medical testing. There are sometimes answers, such RTI with a referral to the guidance counselor, Amazon, take a soda from my fridge, if you need me to cover your class while you make a call.

Frequently, there aren’t answers. To let you in on a trade secret: that’s ok. Sometimes your job is to listen, nod your head, and mean it when you say “let me know whatever I can do to help.” Maybe jot a quick note to self to be sure to follow up. But the greater point is that you need to be there as a non-judgmental support.

I will be honest when people ask “Do you have a minute?” I realize that “no, but what can I do to help?” might come across as rudely generous or generously rude, but I’m sincere in wanting to be of assistance. If it was important enough for someone to enter my office, whatever they came for is at least important enough to them, which means it matters to me.

With all that said, you do need to close your door sometimes. I apply the burning or bleeding rule for entry past the closed door: either something is burning or someone is bleeding. After I sit for an observation, I carve out 60-90 minutes to proofread my notes, categorize the evidence, complete recommendations & commendations (do these while you’re fresh), and then begin to score. I have found that the failure to do so results in highly stressful weekends in which I fear becoming for my boys, in the words of a young writer from my first year of teaching high school English, “some guy I’m supposed to call Dad.”

I also close my door for the time I spend each day to eat lunch and read the Boston Herald Sports online. True it’s typically 10 minutes, but those minutes belong to me and the Patriots/Red Sox/Celtics.

Take care of others, take care of yourself, and have fun!

 

My name is Michael Portas and my third son is also named Michael Portas, which strikes people as odd until I tell them that I taught high school for years and my wife had been in early child education, at which point they realize that we had simply run out out of names that did not conjure  associations.

As part of his job description as a third boy, Michael was taken to his brothers’ practices and games for baseball, football, soccer, and basketball. Generally I was out there coaching but I made it a point to look over at him periodically, and was rewarded because I could see that he was usually following the action closely. Given that he was in the 10% percentile for size, had a perfectly round head, and was pretty unassuming, the older boys and fathers were always nice to him and made him feel included.

As he got involved in sports himself, I kept up my mission of overextending myself and volunteered, or in some cases was volunteered, to coach his teams. No one was going to confuse my little boy for a superstar. At that point in his life, physically he presented what I called the unholy trinity of athleticism: short, skinny, and slow. Quiet by nature, he called no attention to himself, and just went about his business purposefully.

Michael played some soccer and even football for a season, but he gravitated most to baseball and basketball. The same kid who at age three once garnered an audience in the mall as he impersonated the entire Yankees lineup in order, nailing every stance and mannerism with remarkable precision, showed a great love for baseball but did not enjoy much success. At one point his travel teams lost over thirty games in a row, a string of futility made all the more remarkable by the fact that Michael never complained or pouted about it. Not once. Michael Portas the elder would have carried on like an angry baby, but the younger just rolled with it.

I realized that I envied his ability to maintain perspective. He was competitive but did not live or die with the outcomes. When I asked him after every game “Did you have fun?” the answer was always “Yes.” Without fail. I can only wish that I could have said the same.

Travel basketball provided its own narrative. His 3rd grade team was not particularly strong, but played hard and listened. Michael was the last guy on the bench and got his minutes more because the league required it than because his coach/father decreed it. He struggled, and I struggled with that reality. He just wasn’t strong enough to compete, yet so I asked him at the end of the season if he wanted to keep playing. His response was to look at me as if I’d asked him if he still wanted to get birthday presents.

He worked with one of his older brothers on his game and came back a little better in 4th grade, and then stronger still in 5th. His playing time was still among the least on the team, but his attitude never wavered. My wife and I realized that this experience, being a part of the team and around this group of boys, was the most important thing in his world. Everything in his body language and approach to the game suggested that he would not want to be anywhere else or doing anything else.

For 6th grade his team became much more competitive and as a consequence of playing considerable Nerf basketball with his brothers, his footwork and floor vision improved. Another strange thing happened: his playing time increased and I stumbled into finding out that the smallest kid on my team could play excellent low-post offense, a role typically reserved for your bigger players. While his brothers contended I was an idiot for playing Michael there, he developed a passing touch that got his teammates involved and a shot fake, likely borne out of being pummeled by two older brothers, that would deke much larger opponents and let him drop a feathery short corner jumper that rarely missed.

He established himself as a regular for the 7th grade season and his team ended up having a magical season that resulted in winning championships in both the leagues in which they participated. The boys were not the most talented and could not run a half-court offense with any degree of precision, but played hard and together. I ascribed their success to love and defense as they took care of each other and hustled like madmen. Never once was their finger pointing or blame; instead, the boys demonstrated a mindset of unity and persistence. When they won their first championship, coincidentally on Michael’s birthday, I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen him happier. I hugged him, told him I loved him, and thanked him for all his hard work.

Now, we just wrapped up a disappointing final season and today is his 14th birthday so I’m trying to put into perspective what a kid 32 years my junior taught me. I realize that I should have thanked him for the conversations in the car– as a rule, neither of us is very chatty in the car — when we would share about 150 joy-infused words in 30 minutes on the way to a game, or on the way home when he would afford me space to make sense of what I invariably thought was a poorly played game that I could have coached better. I should have thanked him for never complaining about playing time. I should have thanked him for demonstrating a competitive maturity that I never grasped. I should have thanked him for reinforcing that success is measured by growth and development.

I had thought for years that competitive sports were a zero-sum game. That may hold true for game results, but is most definitely not the case for the purpose of youth sports. Growth, toughness, grit, joy, collaborative skills — these are greater measures of success.

I am a much better coach for the perspective and depth of understanding gained from my experiences with Michael and his friends.

I am a much better parent for having had that moment of stomach-dropping recognition and disgust for myself upon realizing how terrible my conduct had once been to my own child, as well as that elation of having had him thank me repeatedly for helping his team.

I am a much better person, I hope, for being permitted to see the grander scheme through the eyes of a kid who had to work harder at sports just to get a small share of playing time, who loved his team because he belonged with them, whose attitude never wavered during the inevitable roller coaster that life presents us, and whose appreciation for the time, energy and effort we expanded kept me charged up for the past six years.

Thank you, Michael.