For years, the secrets to great teaching have seemed more like alchemy than science, a mix of motivational mumbo jumbo and misty-eyed tales of inspiration and dedication. But for more than a decade, one organization has been tracking hundreds of thousands of kids, and looking at why some teachers can move them three grade levels ahead in a year and others can’t. Now, as the Obama administration offers states more than $4 billion to identify and cultivate effective teachers, Teach for America is ready to release its data.

On August 25, 2008, two little boys walked into public elementary schools in Southeast Washington, D.C. Both boys were African American fifth-graders. The previous spring, both had tested below grade level in math.

One walked into Kimball Elementary School and climbed the stairs to Mr. William Taylor’s math classroom, a tidy, powder-blue space in which neither the clocks nor most of the electrical outlets worked.

The other walked into a very similar classroom a mile away at Plummer Elementary School. In both schools, more than 80 percent of the children received free or reduced-price lunches. At night, all the children went home to the same urban ecosystem, a zip code in which almost a quarter of the families lived below the poverty line and a police district in which somebody was murdered every week or so.

At the end of the school year, both little boys took the same standardized test given at all D.C. public schools—not a perfect test of their learning, to be sure, but a relatively objective one (and, it’s worth noting, not a very hard one).

After a year in Mr. Taylor’s class, the first little boy’s scores went up—way up. He had started below grade level and finished above. On average, his classmates’ scores rose about 13 points—which is almost 10 points more than fifth-graders with similar incoming test scores achieved in other low-income D.C. schools that year. On that first day of school, only 40 percent of Mr. Taylor’s students were doing math at grade level. By the end of the year, 90 percent were at or above grade level.

As for the other boy? Well, he ended the year the same way he’d started it—below grade level. In fact, only a quarter of the fifth-graders at Plummer finished the year at grade level in math—despite having started off at about the same level as Mr. Taylor’s class down the road.

This tale of two boys, and of the millions of kids just like them, embodies the most stunning finding to come out of education research in the past decade: more than any other variable in education—more than schools or curriculum—teachers matter. Put concretely, if Mr. Taylor’s student continued to learn at the same level for a few more years, his test scores would be no different from those of his more affluent peers in Northwest D.C. And if these two boys were to keep their respective teachers for three years, their lives would likely diverge forever. By high school, the compounded effects of the strong teacher—or the weak one—would become too great.

Parents have always worried about where to send their children to school; but the school, statistically speaking, does not matter as much as which adult stands in front of their children. Teacher quality tends to vary more within schools—even supposedly good schools—than among schools.

Read the full story here in The Atlantic Online

See Also:  Teach for America

Australians are a funny lot, you’ll often hear one curse,
How things have started badly, and they’ll probably get worse,
The weathers dry, the sun’s so hot it’s stolen all the water,
The Government has never done the things we think they oughta’.

But if we hear a tourist say his home is much more grand,
They had better be prepared to make a very solid stand.
For although we Aussies may complain at what’s become our lot,
When someone knocks this country, we defend with all we’ve got.

We may criticize some teenage brat, may even wish them failure,
But we stand behind them cheering when they’re playing for Australia.
Because, if this is home to you, the country of your birth,
Then you back the native player to beat anyone on Earth.

When the cricket bats are swinging or when someone scores a try,
When a home grown horse has won the cup and made the owner cry,
When some paralympic athlete hits the front and sets the pace,
You’ll hear ‘Aussie Aussie Aussie’ as the crowd goes off their face.

And although we like to take a break in overseas locations,
If you take the time to question this nomadic population,
They will tell you without blinking that wherever they may roam,
The best part of the journey was the last bit, ….coming home.

For the sun was never brighter on the beach at Waikiki,
Than it is on all the sandy shores Australia has to see,
The water never purer nor the air as fresh and clear,
The people never friendlier than those that we have here.

If you venture to the outback where grass is scarce as snow,
As you swelter you may wonder what it was that made you go,
But just look at the locals who have lived there since their birth,
And I know you will not find a better class of folk on earth.

All across this wide brown country from the Cape to Hobart town,
There are people who will help you when you find the chips are down,
And if someone should abuse you, and does it just because,
Then that person’s not Australian, and that person never was.

So when you feel disgruntled just remember this rendition,
And never blame the country for the acts of politicians,
Look up and count your blessings when you see our flag unfurled,
And be grateful that you live in the best country in the world.

By Warren Dakin

A 4-year-old boy was pulled to safety three days after he was buried alive in his two-story family home. He was exhausted and intensely dehydrated but miraculously unharmed.

People in the street ran to get a glimpse of Paul Derlice as he was carried down a huge pile of rubble by the heroic Haitian men who slaved for hours in the blazing sun to free him.

Strangers formed a large circle around the small boy and jostled each other out of the way to get a closer look, reaching their hands into the sky and exclaiming: “God lives!”

On this, the third day since a 7-magnitude earthquake struck the Haitian capital, leveling most of the city and killing untold thousands, it was a sight that few dared to hope for – but everyone needed to see.

“I’m very proud, I feel like a hero,” said Jean Mercilien, one of the crew who rescued the boy armed with only a pick axe and a couple of hammers. “God let this boy live,” he added.

Paul was in the ground floor of his family home in the Carrefour-Feuilles section of Port-au-Prince when the quake hit.

His mother and aunt were on the top floor of the house and managed to escape unharmed.

But Paul was presumed dead in the rubble, along with three others who lived in the building.

For days, the young boy was alone, trapped in the small dark cavity, and no one was looking for him.

As soon as news broke that Paul had been saved, friends rushed to find his mother, Ketly Charleston, so the pair could be reunited for the first time in more than 66 hours. She threw her arms in the air in praise and looked at him as if unable to believe her eyes.

“It’s a miracle,” Charleston, 50, said. “I thought it was impossible that he was alive.”

Friends and neighbors had been climbing over the remains of the house, one of a cluster in close proximity that have all been reduced to ruins, helping to salvage whatever they could: some photos, the Bible, a phone charger or a pair of shoes.

They heard no voices from beneath the debris, and the smell of decaying bodies steadily worsened.

About 8 a.m. Friday, Rene Contant, who works for Paul’s mother, heard a voice from deep underground. “I was passing by and speaking aloud and the child heard that,” he explained.

“He said, ‘Boss Rene’ and ‘Mama.’ Then he started crying,” said Contant, 58.

The much-promised influx of aid to help the masses has failed to emerge on the streets of Port-au-Prince, so these men were forced to begin digging using whatever primitive resources they had on hand.

The sun was searingly hot, and supplies of fresh water were scarce, but they went on without pause.

They made steady progress chipping away at the huge slabs of concrete. After the men had been working for two hours, the first sighting of international help appeared: three large UN trucks filled with workers.

The makeshift rescue crew shouted and waved excitedly for help and beckoned the UN trucks over, but they stopped only momentarily before driving on. It was thought they might be heading to a nearby school which has also collapsed, trapping several children inside.

The men were disappointed but kept digging, and Paul was set free less than 30 minutes later.

Despite spending the better part of three days wedged in hot, dark and humid crevice, the frail, thin little child had barely a scratch on him.

He did not speak, and had trouble standing, but stared around at the crowds wide-eyed while his rescuers washed the dust from him.

They put him in clean clothes, which appeared from out of nowhere from someone in the crowd, and he chewed on an energy bar and slowly sipped water.

His ecstatic family then carried him back to a friend’s home where his mother has been staying since the quake.

He was laid down on top of several blankets while his family fussed around him and gave him small, careful, sips of a sweet and salty fluid to help rehydrate him.

“It’s been a catastrophe, but now this is a miracle,” said Paul’s aunt, Rosemelie Simeon, 48, sitting beside her nephew and stroking his head. “We’ve had no aid, nothing – nothing at all.”

From:  www.nydailynews.com

On the drop platform I am spreadeagled (like one of the lead characters at the pointy end of the Titanic) hanging on to handles left and right. My feet are pivoting on the edge as I lean out.

It’s a very long way down.  It really would have been better to not look because in that moment you start to re-evaluate the decision to participate at all.

There must be plenty of noises going on in this city but I can only hear the sound of the skyjump attendant.

“Just go mate, it’s the only way.  Jump.  OK, do you want me to count down again?”

In my mind I know I am going to jump.  It’s really just a question of how and when.  How will I let go?  When will I do it?

To jump 192 metres is exactly the opposite of what my instinct tells me to do right now.  Now I know in my head that I could not be safer.  I’ve already checked all that.  I’m wearing the attractive blue and lightning bolt yellow jump suit together with the groin-exaggerating-under-leg-over-shoulder harness.  I’m fully strapped to thick, tightly-bound stainless steel wire rope connected to a high-power motorised winch.

Jumping now is probably safer than driving to work or crossing a quiet street – they’ve thought of everything in terms of safety and safe process.  Even if I tripped or got pushed off now, nothing bad can happen because of the way they have strapped me in.  But my 35 years of successfully staying alive so far tells me that it makes absolutely no sense to now aim for that small set or concentric circle so far below that they call the landing.

I’m really scared.

(BTW that’s a mighty big poster advertising Mexican food over on that roof.)

“So are you going to do it?”

“Yeah”, I say.

“How?”, I think.

Then a really weird thing happens.  I suddenly learn that what’s happening right now has happened before and will most certainly happen again – perhaps often.  This is a matter of trust against better judgement.  I’m reminded of a lesson I learned many years ago as a kid.

There is the old story of Peter, who gets invited by the boss Jesus to step out of the boat and walk on the stormy waters.  Of course he hesitated but he did it – and it wasn’t till he stopped looking at the master and instead chose to focus on the peril around him that he started to sink.  I always thought Peter was a bit of a coward for having trouble stepping out and for losing his focus.  But would any of us have done any better, really?

I have to take a step of faith:  make a decision to do the difficult action - the alternative to which is more natural, easier but plain wrong.  I have to trust someone; follow the voice; step out in faith.  Step into thin air.  It’s the right thing to do!

So I jump.

I’m no hero for jumping.  And the photo that was taken on my way down (while the attendant put on the brakes, momentarily, 10m down) showing a happy, confident thumbs-up No Fear Fergie is a most deceiving photo.  In reality I was really terrified.

In case you’re interested, I don’t actually remember much about what happened for the rest of the descent!  It was just 11 seconds.  But I’ll never forget landing, the concentric circles looming large and fast.  I hit the target spot-on and, unplanned, jumped twice in the air, collapsed on the ground in relief, hugging the security of a safe place.

My travelling companions are laughing, taking pictures of the spectacle and congratulating me (they were unwilling to jump).  The ground crew member says that this was the best landing he’d seen. 

I later realised that for the next couple of hours I was in shock – shell shock.  Losing my camera twice, being less than coherent and when it came to calling home, misdialling twice!

So, like you, I’m only human.

All the more reason to trust something and someone bigger than me, through the good times, the bad times, the easily decisions and the difficult.