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This year marks the 50th anniversary of the novel To Kill A Mockingbird. Harper Lee’s work is so powerful and popular that it has never been out of print, selling more than 30 million copies.

It’s widely understood that African-American kids—and other children of color—get fewer opportunities in life than white kids. But still, it is jarring to find that perception overwhelmingly confirmed in a survey of adults whose jobs involve helping children.

The food justice unit was one of the most successful of the year. Until the meltdown. Students had watched Food, Inc., read several articles about food production and created masterful multimedia presentations on their learning. They were now presenting. Omar chose several pictures of his favorite dishes. He told us about them and how they were made. Then he interjected a seemingly innocent joke.

I am a good driver. You’d never know it, given the theatrics of the backseat drivers in my vehicle, whose sudden gasps and quick grasps for the dashboard denote a lack of confidence in my skills. This drama is alternately amusing, annoying and unnecessary. I'm proud to say that, for the most part, my instinctive go-to practice of "when in doubt, step on the gas" has never let me down.

We all want our schools to be safe and orderly. Our teachers should be able to focus on teaching and our children should be able to focus on learning. Sadly, though, the effort to instill greater discipline in our schools has backfired.

Alternative certification gives educators a different route to the classroom. Does it make them fish out of water once they get there?

Walter Sherrill made chemistry cool. He was the sort of refined man who seemed to glide across a room. His voice never rose above a quiet tone, and he wore a mostly stern expression on a peaceful countenance as he explained scientific equations. I cherished the rare times he smiled—or on occasion—chuckled at the ludicrous conclusions of his high school students.

Shrinking there on the stool in the science classroom, I just want to gather my ungraded quizzes and my dignity and flee to freedom. But, I don’t. I sit there, paralyzed by the assault. “We are not your enemies,” I finally counter. “We are not Blake’s enemies.”