You're Not Doing It Wrong,
But Have You Thought About WHY You Do It?
Throughout my many years in education, I’ve led, supported, questioned, and at times even resisted the changes that have shaped our schools. Unlike some who begin with the what or how of change, I’m most often drawn to the why. I believe that real, lasting change only takes root when its underlying purpose is clear and its philosophy aligns with our values. Once I understand and believe in the why, I’m fully invested—ready to engage with the how and what questions that follow.
Strategic and adaptive change is rarely simple. But when the why behind it energizes me, challenges my thinking, and resonates with my core beliefs, I’m prepared to dive into the complexity and do the hard work that meaningful change demands.
This blog is my attempt to explore and share those essential why questions—questions that I hope will help you begin the changes you want to make in your school, department, or classroom. I’ve intentionally kept the research light—not because it lacks value (I regularly dig into both current and historical research to inform my views)—but to keep the posts concise and accessible, serving as a starting point rather than an endpoint. I also acknowledge that not all will come to the same conclusions; however, I do hope that educators will contemplate the why questions even if the answer yields the same practices or procedures that they have chosen to adopt.
I welcome your thoughts and would be happy to connect to discuss any ideas you may have. Whether or not it leads to a formal collaboration, I value thoughtful conversation and believe that open dialogue is essential to advancing our shared educational goals.
An argument for removing requirements or policies for fidgets
"With liberty and fidgets for all"
When I was younger, I loved visiting my father’s office in Midtown Manhattan. I wasn’t drawn to the city’s architecture, didn’t appreciate its blend of cultures, and certainly didn’t sample its eclectic food—I only ate pizza. What I loved was sitting in my father’s chair and playing with the toys scattered across his desk: the oversized slinky he palmed while taking calls, the magnetic paperclip holder that could be shaped into Roman-like arches, the silly putty stored in a plastic golf ball container, and of course, the rolls of tape that he used to occupy his fingers during phone conversations. I didn’t realize it at the time, but my father—a highly successful immigrant businessman—was a serious fidgeter. Those “toys” weren’t there for fun; they kept him focused, calm, and decisive.
I inherited many traits from my father, including his tendency to fidget. In my early years working in finance, I fidgeted with leftover ketchup and duck sauce packets from lunch. After several mishaps resulting in stained ties, I didn’t abandon the habit; instead, I reinforced the packets with tape, channeling my father’s creativity to avoid future accidents. I didn’t have an IEP, 504 plan, or formal learning accommodations, but I knew instinctively that fidgeting helped me focus—whether I was constructing cash flow analyses for small-cap biotech companies or grading papers after moving into education.
There’s substantial research supporting the benefits of fidgets in the classroom: they can improve focus, reduce stress, regulate sensory input, and decrease disruptive behaviors. While many educators acknowledge these benefits, schools often regulate fidgets—either restricting the types allowed, limiting who can use them, or controlling when they’re permitted. This raises an important question: why do we regulate fidgets, or why do we create policies that limit their potential positive impact?
Having sat in numerous meetings focused on fidget policies, I’ve repeatedly heard three main justifications: first, that students don’t know how to use them properly; second, that they distract others; and third, that not everyone needs them.
Let’s examine each of these.
The first argument—that students misuse fidgets—overlooks a simple solution: we can teach proper use. When working with fifth graders or high schoolers, I explain that a fidget is an object you can use without looking at it. If you have to watch it—a spinner, putty, or even a ketchup packet—it’s not a fidget; it’s a toy. This simple definition (which I acknowledge may not be universally accepted) helps solve the issue. More importantly, arguing that students misuse fidgets shifts the responsibility onto the teacher. We teach students how to use pencils, computers, and scissors safely and effectively; we don’t withhold access based on the possibility of misuse. While some argue that this analogy justifies regulating fidgets the same way we regulate scissors or computers, the comparison breaks down when we ask: are fidgets dangerous? Are they distracting when used correctly?
The second common claim is that fidgets distract others. But like humming, tapping, or eating in class, this is a teachable moment. Helping students understand both their individual needs and their role within a community is part of our responsibility as educators. Instead of banning fidgets to avoid distractions, we can teach students how to use them respectfully, just as we teach other community norms.
Which brings us to the third argument: that not everyone needs a fidget. But how can we truly determine who does? If fidgets can reduce stress, improve focus, and help regulate sensory input, why assume these benefits apply only to certain students? Not every adult uses a fidget, but those who do typically use them responsibly and discreetly.
There is research questioning the universal benefits of fidgets. A 2020 study in Contemporary School Psychology found that third graders performed worse on math tests when using fidget spinners—though the researchers acknowledged that results might differ if students were more accustomed to using them. Other studies suggest that multitasking while using fidgets may impair cognition and memory. But I’m not arguing that fidgets are universally beneficial. My argument is simpler: if a teacher or school recognizes their potential benefits, why regulate their use so strictly?
Once we begin unpacking that question, others follow. Why restrict who can use fidgets? Is that really necessary? Do we need to regulate what counts as an appropriate fidget? I’m confident that a hot sauce packet reinforced with layers of tape isn’t on any school’s approved list—not because it’s distracting or ineffective, but because most people haven’t thought to use it. Perhaps there’s value in teaching students how and when to use fidgets effectively, but does that require a restrictive policy—or simply good instruction?
As educators, we want all our students to experience reduced stress, increased focus, and fewer moments of sensory overload. So it’s worth asking: why do we limit access to tools that might help them achieve exactly that?
An argument for teaching American history thematically rather than chronologically
"We only got up to World War II"
When I was in middle school, my Social Studies teacher, Mrs. Shapiro, had us research all the events mentioned in Billy Joel’s latest hit, “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” a song everyone was humming. I admired Mrs. Shapiro deeply, and with the help of encyclopedias (since the internet didn’t exist yet) and my parents, I eagerly explored the events from Harry Truman to the Cola Wars. I took immense pride in that project.
The very next day after we submitted our assignments, The New York Times published a synopsis of every event, book, movie, and personality referenced in the song. I’m still unsure whether Mrs. Shapiro had an inside scoop about the article or if The Times somehow heard about our project—but I’m grateful I spent hours digging into the key moments of the past fifty years. Years later, as a middle school Social Studies teacher myself, I asked my students to write the next stanza of the song, covering events from 1989 to 2002. Although they didn’t share the same affection for the original, the assignment gave them a meaningful look at the last two decades—especially since we never had enough time in class to cover them in depth.
Beyond the creativity of the project—which predated the widespread use of the term “project-based learning”—the assignment has stuck with me because Mrs. Shapiro used it to fill in the historical gaps our curriculum left behind. Our class only made it through World War II. Similarly, in my own classroom, I often struggled to get past the mid-20th century, and I was always relieved when we finished the Civil Rights Movement unit in time. Even now, more than twenty years later, I still hear teachers telling students in both middle and high school: “We only go up to World War II.”
That raises an important question: why do we teach American history chronologically rather than thematically?
I argue that teaching history thematically allows students to explore topics in greater depth, trace historical through-lines, apply essential questions across time periods, and make meaningful connections to current events. A thematic approach engages students with the critical questions America—and the world—is asking right now.
In recent months, Americans have been grappling with the country’s involvement in international conflicts. Whether it’s Ukraine, Iran, or Yemen, public debate centers on three core questions:
(a) Should America get involved?
(b) What would such involvement accomplish?
(c) What are the long-term benefits or consequences of that involvement?
A seventh grader focused solely on early American history isn't equipped to answer these questions. Even an eighth grader who barely gets beyond World War II (or maybe the Cold War) likely hasn’t encountered the Persian Gulf War, Somalia, Bosnia, or the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq—essential chapters for understanding the scope and impact of U.S. foreign policy.
That’s why I propose a thematic unit on America’s role in global conflicts, guided by the essential question: Who benefits from America’s role as the world’s democracy police? Through this lens, students can examine the Spanish-American War, World War I and II, Korea, Vietnam (and the Cold War), the Gulf War, U.S. decisions in Somalia, Bosnia, and Rwanda, and the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. The goal isn't just to study the wars themselves, but to explore how America’s global role has evolved, what lessons leaders have (or haven’t) learned, and the outcomes—short-, mid-, and long-term—of those decisions. This prepares students to engage in today’s debates as thoughtful, informed citizens.
Let’s draw a comparison to museums. On a recent visit to the Smithsonian National Museum of American History, I walked through exhibits organized by theme: food, transportation, currency, voting rights, and more. The floors weren’t divided by decade or century, and while individual exhibits used chronology, I encountered the 1910s in three different contexts—each offering a unique perspective on the same era.
That experience prompted two questions I now pose to others: (a) did I learn more or less American history? And more importantly, (b) did I understand more or less?
Some argue that students must first learn history chronologically to understand its themes. But have we paused to ask why? Does the Civil Rights Movement make more sense when it follows a unit on 1950s consumerism, or is it more powerful when taught as part of a broader narrative about African Americans’ ongoing fight for rights—from slavery, through Reconstruction, to the Roaring Twenties and the New Deal?
The standard answer to why we teach chronologically often boils down to three words: tradition, ease, and materials. But let’s examine each.
Tradition: In education, “tradition” can often be a red flag. We’ve reimagined how we teach reading, math, science, and languages, yet Social Studies has remained relatively unchanged. I acknowledge the advances—better document analysis, structured Socratic seminars, dynamic simulations—but these innovations still operate within a chronological framework. Yet the documentaries we watch, the books we read, and the museum exhibits we explore are typically thematic, guiding audiences through a chronological arc centered around a core idea.
Ease: For both new and experienced teachers, chronological instruction seems easier. Rewriting curriculum is undoubtedly labor-intensive, but let’s reserve that concern for the how and what—not the why. Students often forget historical events shortly after they’re taught, relegating those lessons to “already covered” status. But when history is revisited through multiple thematic lenses, students engage more deeply. For example, the 1920s could be explored in units on economic cycles, cultural revolutions, and the American Dream—offering richer, more lasting understanding than a single unit in March. Is “ease” just about sticking to what’s already been done, or can it include helping students synthesize history without ever having to say, “We already covered that”?
Materials: Textbooks are valuable, and this is not an argument against their use. However, their structure often reinforces chronological instruction. Teachers can—and should—use textbooks thematically while supplementing with diverse resources to enrich learning.
For those who wonder if this idea is new, I point to Mary E. Connor’s 1997 article in Social Education, which proposed teaching American history through eight central themes. Many schools have since adopted this approach, and even more are reconsidering their strategies—especially as time marches forward and World War II increasingly feels like ancient history to students born more than 75 years after its conclusion.
Once you’re ready to ask, “Why don’t we teach American history thematically?” you’re ready to take on the how and what. And those questions are far more manageable than they seem. Whether you work with a consultant, collaborate with your team, or explore this path independently, I hope you’ll feel inspired to rethink, reenergize, and reimagine how we teach American history.
Coming Soon
