If by a low-performing school you mean one that doesn’t care about its kids and staff, then “No.”

If by a low-performing school you mean one that has very little diversity, then “No.”

If by a low-performing school, you mean one that looks like a concrete warehouse, then “No.”

If you mean unruly kids and out-of-touch teachers, then “No.”

If you mean dumb students and unqualified instructors, then “No.”

If you mean an unsafe environment and unhappy demeanor, then “No.”

If you mean one that has no tradition and spirit, then “No … No …        No …”

If you mean one filled with selfish competition and strife, then unequivocally “No.”

But …

If you should mean one that falls short on a graph or chart, then “Yes.”

And if you mean one that has little backing from its state government, then “Yes.”

But …

Whose chart or graph are you looking at?

Or whose set of standards?

If you mean I work at a school that has been arbitrarily labeled “low-performing,” then “Yes.”

If you mean schools like mine are becoming sacrificial lambs, then “Yes.”

But …

Do I believe I teach in a low-performing school?

Not yesterday when some of my students cried after we read a poem about a little girl whose mother died.

Not today when my kids told me to “have a nice day” when they were leaving the room.

Not last week when a former student and her father stopped by to give me a hug and to tell me she’s doing well in her first year of college.

Not two days ago when I looked around at our faculty meeting and was overwhelmed by the all the talent I saw sitting in one room.

Not last Friday night when I watched our marching band transform a football field into a stage.

And not tomorrow when I see my students enter the room because they have a chance to change their lives and their world, which is more important than their grades.

So if someone wants to tell me that I work in a low-performing school, I’ll be willing to change what I do and how I do things to make someone feel better, but I also realize the ones who use those adjectives to describe my school do not know me; they do not know my fellow teachers; and they do not know my students. In fact, they have never set foot on my campus, so they really don’t know what a low-performing school looks like because they’re only seeing what they want to see.

But wait a minute …

If my job is to simply put on a performance to impress others, then call me “low-performing.”

If I feel a lack of concern about state-mandated tests in favor of teaching viable life skills through my curriculum, then I am guilty as charged: Call me “low-performing.”

If I choose to serve my students rather than a department of public instruction, then, “Yes.” I am low-performing.

The day I start acting like a teacher because someone who’s not a teacher told me that was the way a teacher was supposed to act, then that’s when I realize I will deserve the title “low-performing.”

Until then, I’m going to teach my heart out. I’m going to teach kids because I want to see positive changes in their thinking and in their attitudes. I’m not as worried about their grades as much as I worry about their hearts.

Go ahead. Call me “low-performing” if you want to, because if you call my school “low-performing,” you’re calling me “low-performing.” And my kids. And their families. And our entire community.

I often see misunderstanding as a way to reorganize and as a way to recalibrate. Being misunderstood is sometimes a good thing because I realize I can’t — and won’t— change the qualities that matter the most. Those aren’t displayed for a performance; they are in a teacher’s heart. Graphs and charts don’t show hearts. Performance is not a show; it’s a daily commitment. And any real educator knows that most of the time, real teaching and learning take place when no one’s looking.

 Larry Efird teaches at A.L. Brown High School in Kannapolis.