LOL! VP SOS ASAP: A Spoonful of K–12 Alphabet Soup

Schools don’t just teach reading, writing, and arithmetic—they also hand out a second language: acronyms. From PLCs to PBIS to IEPs, education has turned everyday conversations into a bowl of alphabet soup that even seasoned teachers struggle to swallow. In this episode of Vice Principal UnOfficed, join me, your host Lisa Hill as I take you inside the world of school acronyms—why we love them, how they confuse everyone else, and what happens when your staff meeting starts sounding more like a codebreaking mission. 

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Chapters

• 0:00 Introduction to Edu-Speak
• 2:45 First Month as Interim Principal
• 4:45 Origins of School Acronyms
• 9:53 Confusing Acronym Stories
• 16:27 The Infamous Acronym Binder
• 21:58 Acronym Avalanche Staff Meeting
• 28:26 Conclusion and Next Episode Preview

Transcript

SPEAKER_02: 0:00

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Get started today at WheezeTease.com. Schools don't just teach reading, writing, and arithmetic, they also hand out a second language, acronyms. From PLCs to PBIS to IEPs, education has turned everyday conversations into a bowl of alphabet soup that even seasoned teachers struggle to swallow. In this episode of Vice Principal on Office, join me, your host, Lisa Hill, as I take you inside the world of school acronyms, why we love them, how they confuse everyone else, and what happens when your staff meetings start sounding more like a code-breaking mission. Now let's get laughing and learning. Attention students, I mean listeners. The stories in this podcast are told from the host's personal and farcical point of view. All names and identifiers have been omitted or altered to protect identities. Now get to class and enjoy the show. The big update on my end? I've officially wrapped up my first full month on the job as an interim principal. And you know, as I started pulling ideas for this episode, one theme smacked me right in the face. Acronyms. Why? Because nothing reminds you more of how deep K-12 schools live in acronym land, like starting a new job in education. I'm serious. The use of acronyms in schools is so overwhelming. Anyone new on the job spends their first few months not learning policies or daily routines or even the names of their colleagues, but they spend time learning a whole new language. Now, if you've ever worked in education, you know what I mean. We've got PLCs, MTSS, PBIS, IEPs, VPs, APs, and about 47 more before lunch. Sometimes I feel less like I've been hired to run a school, and more like I've been hired to decode classified government files. Honestly, if James Bond walked into a faculty meeting, even he might need a glossary. So in this episode, we're diving headfirst into the alphabet soup of education. Why do schools turn every phrase into three capital letters? Does it actually make us more efficient? Or are we just speaking in code to confuse parents and terrify new teachers? IDK. That's I don't know for those keeping score. But stick around, because by the end of this episode, you'll either be fluent in acronyms or you'll be saying IDC. I don't care. YSK, you should know, acronyms were almost non existent in the earliest days of K-12 public schools. I mean, can you picture Miss Beadle from Little House on the Prairie telling her students, get your slate and chalk out ASAP, as soon as possible. Not a chance, but OMG, oh my god, would that be hilarious? LOL, laugh out loud. The first acronyms used in public schools probably happened when schools started calculating grade point averages of students. You know, your GPA, mine was never that great. I'm sure school administrators and teachers became tired of saying the words grade point average to every parent that asked, so they shortened their convo conversation by saying GPA instead. DYK, did you know that it wasn't until the mid-1960s when President Johnson signed the Elementary and Secondary Education Act into law that schools really started leaning on acronyms. Because let's be honest, nobody wanted to say Elementary and Secondary Education Act every single time. That's a fifteen syllable mouthful. So ESEA stuck. And just like that, the era of education acronyms was born. BTY, by the way, tune into episode six if you want a deeper dive into Johnson's ESEA and the ripple effect it had. But for now, let's MOA. You know, move on already. By the 1980s and 90s, acronyms weren't just common, they were everywhere. Federal accountability laws, school reforms, and society's love affair with speed practically demanded them. And schools seem to be churning out acronyms like concession stands churn out nachos on a Friday night. And they are still SGS, still growing strong. But FYI, for your information, the use of acronyms in society stems from our military. Wait, what? Yep, it's true. Much of our everyday language and technology started in the armed forces. Take the acronym RADAR, radio detection and ranging. It was coined by the US Navy in 1940, and then became widely used by everyone and is still used today. Here's another one the military created. The acronym SNAFU. The military used this acronym to share amongst themselves how they felt about a mission that might not be going so well. You know, the mission was a real snafu. Situation normal, all fucked up. Makes sense to me. Half the staff meetings I've sat through during my 39-year career have been a big snafu. I know, I know, TMI, too much information. You probably just want me to go e get on with it. So let's swing back to public schools and their use of acronyms. LIS, like I said, acronym use in public schools really surged when the federal government pushed for and created more educational accountability laws. However, IMO, in my opinion, this acronym surge really began in 1983 with the publication of A Nation at Risk. A Nation at Risk warned that unless student achievement improved, America would lose its educational and economic edge. Cue the flood of accountability laws because here they came. Which honestly felt more like a BOGO deal. You know, buy one, get one free. New acronyms popped up faster than invitations to College BYO B parties, bring your own beverage on a Saturday night. Which is exactly why I titled this episode LOL V P S O S A S A P A Spoonful of K-12 Alphabet Soup. Of course, I really wanted to call this episode WTF People. Why does every school invent its own acronym language that nobody actually understands, pretends like everyone should, and then replaces it with a new set of gloves before anyone figures out what the first one stands for? Because that's exactly what happens in K-12 school, all thanks to federal pressures and school leaders' obsession with sounding official and believing acronym talk is efficient. Both of which T-A-N. They are not. Lisa Anne. MB Mom. You know, my bad. But I'm not really sorry. BC because NGL, not gonna lie, my brain is so tired of learning the new acronym language spoken by the employees at my new school district that I feel like my head is going to explode. Maybe that's because I'm an OAP, old age pensioner. But seriously, DAE, does anyone else think public schools create way too many acronyms in attempts of conversing faster with each other? Or is it just me? I don't think it's me because nothing proves the power and confusion of acronyms like the stories that happen inside schools. LMB. Let me begin. You never know if it's completely true. Meaning, did it really happen to someone's cousin's colleague in Nebraska, or if school principals just recycle it for laughs? But it's too good not to share. One year, a brand new teacher who was just beginning their career, you know, bright-eyed, eager, still smelling like freshly laminated bulletin board borders. Anyway, it was her first week on the job. So naturally, she makes sure to check the staff calendar so she doesn't miss a thing and sees PLC meeting, 3.30 p.m. Now, most of us old timers know that PLC stands for Professional Learning Community. But nope, not her. She confidently leaned over to a colleague and said, Oh, I know what that means. PLC, please leave carefully. And here's the kicker. She meant it. That afternoon, she packed up her classroom like she was following a fire drill checklist, coat zipped, tote bag loaded, and a stack of ungraded papers clutched under her arms. She even straightened a row of chairs like she was doing her part to ensure an orderly evacuation. Then she stood by the door, waiting patiently for the intercom to come alive. Attention staff, the time is now 3:30. Please leave carefully. Listening to this story, there was a second, I'll admit, I thought, you know what? She's not wrong. Because if you've ever tried to leave a high school parking lot at dismissal, please leave carefully should absolutely be our standing policy. Eventually, someone on the staff had to break it to her. Gently, of course. No, sweetheart, PLC doesn't mean you get to go home early. It means you're about to spend the next two hours in the library staring at bar graphs, nodding like you understand them, while secretly wishing you had left when you had the chance. I'm sure she was devastated upon hearing the true meaning of what PLC stood for. But I actually prefer her version better. Here's another acronym story for you. This one happened in a middle school hallway. You know the scene. Lockers slamming, kids yelling down the corridor like the bell means the building's about to explode, and somewhere in the distance a band kid is practicing the tuba. I'm walking along when I overhear two seventh graders deep in conversation. One of them is strutting, chest puffed out, like he's just got drafted into the elite squad. He brags, yeah, I've got an IEP. That's an individualized education plan. It's like a VIP, very important person. But for school, you get special perks. His buddy's eyes go wide. No way, that's awesome. How do I get one? The first kid shrugs, cool as can be. Well, you don't just get one. They give it to you if you're very important. He actually compared it to being accepted into Hogwarts, you know, from Harry Potter. And here's the funny part. The kid wasn't entirely wrong. IEP meetings do sometimes come with snacks. Students can get extra breaks when others don't. And really, when's the last time you had a whole team of adults sitting around a table nodding thoughtfully about your strengths and goals? It does sound a little VIP if you think about it. But then my brain takes it further. I started picturing the IEP lounge. A velvet rope at the entrance, a sign-in sheet labeled IOA, individualized access only, kids flashing their IEPs like backstage passes. Inside there's moonlighting, bing bag chairs, and a DJ disc jockey spinning custom playlists. And now, by request, here's Johnny's focus track for math class. And of course there's a concessions table, juice boxes, goldfish crackers, maybe a granola bar if the school budget stretches that far, and staff members working the door like bouncers, whispering, sorry, you're not on the list. Try the General Ed classroom down the hall. I swear, if schools marketed it that way, kids would be lining up to get their IAP. Forget the stigma, suddenly it's the hottest ticket in the building, and exactly the kind of attention those students deserve. Oh, just wait, I'm NDY, not done yet. Here's another story. A teacher friend of mine shared this one, and it's too good not to pass along. She was in a parent-teacher conference doing the usual, talking about test scores, behavior, the whole package. At one point, she casually mentioned PBIS, Positive Behavior Interventions and Supports. Like every parent obviously knows what that means. Big mistake. The mom's eyes went wide. She leaned in, deadly serious, and whispered, Wait, does my child have PBIS? Is that like RSV, respiratory sensitial virus, or hand, foot, and mouth? Should I be calling a pediatrician? My friend said she nearly choked. This poor mom thought PBIS was a childhood illness, like the next wave of plagues that sweep through every elementary classroom, first head lice, then strep, then peep guy, and now PBIS. My friend said she quickly responded, No, no, no, PBIS isn't a disease. It's just our school-wide program to support positive student behavior. The mom let out a huge sigh of relief. Oh, thank goodness. Because my other kid already had RSV last winter, and I don't think I could survive another outbreak. And here's the thing. This mom wasn't completely crazy for thinking that. Acronyms in schools sound exactly like medical conditions. PBIS, it could easily sit right next to ADHD, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, or RSV on a doctor's chart. You know, the more I think about it, the more PBIS sounds like a prescription drug. Can't you hear the commercial? Ask your doctor if PBIS is right for your family. Side effects may include sticker charts, unexpected assemblies, lunch detentions, and random acts of kindness. In rare cases, PBIS may cause excessive high fives and spontaneous good citizenship. Do not attempt PBIS if you're allergic to responsibility or following rules. And that's when it hit me. To parents, acronym soup doesn't sound like school policy. It sounds like the back page of a medical pamphlet. No wonder they're confused. Now let me tell you about the infamous acronym binder. A friend of mine swore her district actually printed one of these, an official acronym guide. And when I say binder, I don't mean a cute little staff handout. No, this thing was massive. Three inches thick, tabbed, color-coded, with a glossy cover. The kind of binder that looks like it belongs in a law library or maybe NASA's National Aeronautics and Space Administration mission control. One summer afternoon I stopped by her house to catch up. We're sitting at her kitchen table, drink in hand, when she disappeared into the other room and came back lugging this giant binder like it was a family heirloom. She plunked it down in front of me with a thud that rattled the ice in our drinks. See, she said, patting the cover proudly, this is our district's acronym guide. Don't worry, this thing is supposed to help staff members navigate our district's mission of educating children. The teachers joked that it needed its own acronym, DOA, dead on arrival, because by the time the district finished printing all 300 pages, half the acronyms inside were already outdated. New teachers would lug it around like it was their survival manual. You'd see them flip desperately through the pages mid-meeting. Wait, what's SLO? Student learning outcome. Is it on page 247 or is that S E L, social emotional learning, or maybe SLA, structured learning assistance? To me, this acronym binder sounded more like someone trying to read the instructions to assemble furniture from IKEA, Ingvar Komproad Elterit A Governorid, you know, the founder of IKEA furniture, which created tiny print, confusing symbols, and just enough missing information to make you question your life choices. And really, the comparison isn't that far off. Because acronyms in schools pile up like extra screws in an IKEA box. You never really know where they're supposed to go, but you keep them anyway just in case. And just like the IKEA box warns, so does the acronym binder. Warning, acronym binder may cause headaches, eye strain, excessive coffee consumption, and in rare cases, spontaneous tears of confusion. Consult your administrator before attempting to use ABG acronym binder. My friend said the teachers in her school started treating the binder like contraband. One was adamant. I'm not carrying that damn thing to every meeting. If I can't decode an acronym in 30 seconds, I'm just going to nod and pretend. Which, all K-12 teachers know, is the actual professional development skill most educators master first in their career. At some point, my friend school district realized the binder wasn't saving time. It was wasting it. Didn't I question that earlier in this episode? Anyway, instead of clarifying language, it made acronyms feel even more like gatekeeping. The binder basically shouted, If you don't already speak fluent school, good luck catching up. Perhaps the binder was more like a warning label. Proof that once schools start boiling everything down to three letters, the broth is going to get real thick real fast. Then there's the infamous staff meeting. You know, the one that went down in history as the acronym Avalanche. Picture it. We're crammed around a cluster of library tables pushed together to form one giant rectangle. Pop cans and water bottles are scattered across the laminate surface. A few half-eaten granola bars are tucked behind stacks of sticky notes. Half the staff are pretending to jot down important insights while actually doodling in the margins of their agendas. Everyone's hanging on by a thread, silently praying the meeting ends before the librarian kicks us out for disturbing the peace. And then the dear district office leader stands up, clears his throat, and lets loose a sentence that should have come with subtitles. It went something like this. PLCs will review MTSS data of FRP for AYP to ensure SEL aligns with SIP under ESSA, monitored by CFAs and MAP, embedded in RTI supported by ILPs and SLAs, and documented in the LCAP. Now in plain English, that sentence translates to teachers will meet to look at student data, see if kids are learning what they should, make sure social emotional lessons fit the school plan, track progress with tests, give extra help when needed, and then report everything to the district. Simple, right? But instead of just saying that, schools dress it up with enough capital letters to make it sound like a government security briefing. And if you want full descriptions of every acronym in that sentence, call me, because it'll take a while. Of course, as a teacher, by the time you hear all of that, it feels less like a discussion about education and more like you've stumbled into the DaVinci code. You're sitting there, nodding politely, but secretly wondering if you should have brought along Tom Hanks to help translate. Truthfully, it was like listening to someone read off their Wi-Fi password. Long, complicated, and just one digit away from locking everyone completely out. Clearly, no one around that table knew if we were tracking student progress or unlocking a secret vault. I half expected someone to dim the library lights, slide a key card through the reader, and whisper access granted, initiate PBIS controls. But I will tell you, when the district leader finished his acronym soup sentence, the room fell silent. Teachers looked around the table with glazed over expressions, accompanied by part confusion while wondering is it too late to transfer districts? Finally, one brave soul raised their hand and said what we were all thinking. Could you repeat that in English? Oh wait, this story gets better. Because the best part The district administrator actually repeated the exact same sentence, acronyms and all, only slower and louder, like that would magically help. We just nodded politely, pretending to understand while secretly wondering if Rosetta Stone had a course in Edu Babel. And that was the moment it hit me. Acronyms don't always save time. They don't always simplify communication. More often than not, they just toss us into a steaming bowl of alphabet soup. You start out thinking you're going to zip something warm and comforting, but instead you're fishing through the broth, trying to line up random floating letters into something that makes sense. And the harder you stir, the cloudier it gets. And of course, at some point, you give up and just slurp acronyms one spoonful at a time, hoping that by the end of the bowl you've swallowed enough letters to pretend you understand. And of course, just when you think you've got it, you burn your mouth on one of the acronyms. Because nothing stings quite like realizing you're nodding yes in a meeting without having the slightest clue what was actually said. Look, the use of acronyms in K-12 schools isn't going away. They're part of the recipe of education, like carrots and chicken noodle soup or beans and chili. They've been simmering on the back burner for decades, and they're not coming off the menu anytime soon. But here's the thing maybe, just maybe, we can laugh at the stupid things, survive them, and occasionally scoop one up and actually know what it means. Because in the end, acronyms are just the seasoning in the bowl, not the soup itself. The real flavor comes from the people, the teachers, students, and parents who make the dish worth serving. So the next time you're stuck in a staff meeting and the acronyms start flying around like dodgeballs in a middle school gym, remember, you're not clueless, you're just immersed in the rich broth of K-12 alphabet soup. And like any soup, it can be overwhelming at first, but give it time and you'll start to pick out the ingredients. And remember, if all else fails, take a careful sip of this soup, laugh when it burns a little, and whisper OMG under your breath. Because in the end, we're all just trying to finish the bowl without choking on the alphabet. Or better yet, lean back, smile, and say L O L O M G W T F I O. Translation, laugh out loud, oh my god, what the fuck? Is it over? Well, your staff acronym meetings may never truly be over. But this episode is officially II. Well, kids, the dismissal bell is ringing, so until next time on Vice Principal Uffist, push in your chair, put your name on your paper, be kind to your classmates, put your phone away, and use your indoor voice. Or not, thanks for listening. And I hope you enjoyed the tales from Vice Principal Unoffice as much as I enjoyed sharing them. And it is also my hope that you were not only entertained by this episode, but that you walked away with a little nugget of knowledge that gave you some insight on how working in a school is not for the faint of heart. And as I've said before, life is short, so you gotta do the best you can to leave the world in a better place than when you got here. And of course, for the love of God, see the humor in life. It's a lot more fun and a little easier to get through the ickin life with a smile on your face. Catch you next. Next time on Vice Principal on Office. Next time on Vice Principal on Office, join me, your host, Lisa Hill, as I step into the haunted hallways to uncover the spooky side of school life with my friend and former colleague, Tracy Holland. From ghostly students and mysterious school legends to the eerie creaks that echo after the last bell, I'm asking, are schools really haunted or just really drafty? So tune in October 21st for a chilling and hilarious look at the school spirits that may or may not be roaming the halls. Hey students, I mean listeners, thanks again for tuning in. And if you've enjoyed today's show, please leave me a review. It really helps grow the show. And don't forget to hit the follow button so you don't miss an episode. Trust me, you don't want to be late for this detention. And listeners, if you've got a school story of your own that you think would fit Vice Principal on Office, I'd love to hear it. Just head to my podcast website and send me your story. And who knows, your story might even get a shout-out in a future episode. Thanks so much for listening and for your support. Vice Principal on Office is an independent podcast with everything you hear done by me, Lisa Hill, and supported through Buzzsprout. Any information from today's show, along with any links and resources, are available in the show's notes. So if you want to do a little homework and dive deeper into anything I've mentioned, head over to my podcast website and check it out. And a big thank you to Matthew Chiam with Pixabay for the show's marvelous theme music. And of course, a huge shout out to my mother. This podcast is for the purpose of entertainment only, like the recess of your day, and not a platform for debates about public education. Though you never know, you can learn something. And just a reminder that the stories shared in this podcast represent one lens, which is based on my personal experiences and interpretations, and also reflect my unique perspective through humor. Names, dates, and places have been changed or omitted to protect identities and should not be considered universally applicable. Until next time, keep laughing and learning.