SUMMER 2010

Triage under the small school tent

When I became head of Academy Hill School (Massachusetts), in charge of 100 students, grades K–8, my contract guaranteed me a new laptop. I preferred first to get the other computers in the building up to speed, so I made do with an old-timer replete with outmoded ports and slots. It served me well, but slowly. It also incessantly flashed the following alert:

Your system is low on virtual memory. Windows is increasing the size of your virtual memory paging file.

I researched the problem and found a golden metaphor for my life at a small school.

It turns out that, when there are too many programs running on a computer or when certain programs are running for too many days in a row, the computer runs out of RAM, the class of computer memory akin to our working memory. It simply can’t hold so many programs at the front of its brain at once, so it enlists the help of virtual memory. This involves carving out inactive chunks of each task and setting them aside in the computer’s long-term memory until needed again.

Turn from my monitor to the sticky notes and file folders covering my desk (and every surface near it) and you’ll see: I do the same thing as my computer.

My work life is all about too many programs running at once. A teacher knocking on my door, the voicemail light blinking, clogged toilet scrawled on the back of my hand. Clearing my email inbox while waiting for a budget to print while rehearsing for an awkward parent meeting while worrying about the faculty’s expensive single-serve coffee habit. Oh, and the kindergartners are here to read their story and the fanatical fire inspector just pulled up the driveway for a surprise visit.

Constant triage is the only hope for survival. First, anything trivial — a survey, a chain email, a newsletter — is chucked at first sight. Second, anything that can be done immediately gets done immediately. “Are you sure?” a teacher will ask. “You really don’t need to see the sand paintings this very second.”

Third, everything else gets opened up on my computer desktop or arranged in piles on my real desktop — forming my own ungainly version of the “page files” used in my computer’s virtual memory. I toggle through these tasks all day, lighting on anything I can make headway on, leaving everything else poised and ready, but momentarily ignored.

It works, but barely. Virtual memory, it turns out, has its limits. Data on the hard disk is time-consuming to retrieve and, when you sift through, you eventually run out of places to stick all the extra information. Navigating my piles is a task in itself and I often steal folding tables from the kitchen just to keep them from spreading across the floor.

The only real solution to the problem is adding more RAM, or working memory. That works for computers — my old PC finally seized up and I have a shiny new laptop that hasn’t blipped at me yet for over-multitasking — but I don’t know of anyone selling working memory for the human brain.

If I were at a bigger school, other people would be in charge of a lot of the tasks I juggle. For that matter, I’d likely have a personal assistant just to keep me organized. The head of one of those large schools recently complained to me over lunch, “My staff wonders, ‘Just what does he do in that office?’ Well, often I’m just sitting there thinking… thinking about what the school will be like in 10 years.” I like the guy, but I wanted to clobber him.

At a small school, sitting and pondering with any regularity is just not the reality. Sure, I have to think about 10 years, but I also have to run to the store to buy more whiteboard markers and drop everything to comfort the kid whose horse died. It’s how it is, and it’s part of what makes small schools special. Having a role in everything means I’m really present as a leader and manager, that I’ve got my finger on the school’s pulse. It means I get to be part of all the beautiful things that make up the school, from band-aids to diplomas. It’s harrying but meaningful.

So it’s virtual memory for me… for now. Now if I could just fit one more folding table in here….

Jake Giessman is head of Academy Hill School (Massachusetts).