My first year teaching, I had only one prep. I had four sections of U.S. History, fifth hour plan, and finished my day monitoring whatever in-house detention was called – essentially a second planning period. Compared to what we normally do to baby teachers, it was an amazing schedule.
Nevertheless, within about six weeks I was fresh out of lesson ideas. I’d done a few lectures with moderate success. I’d written my own 25 – 30 questions over several textbook chapters in hopes of guiding students through some form of close reading. We even spent an entire period looking through pictures, maps, and graphs in whatever chapter we were on, asking questions and making inferences – pretty cutting-edge pedagogy for me in those days.
I hadn’t yet grown comfortable with artsy-fartsy options, so I’m sure we didn’t color or fold or turn content into children’s bedtime stories, but I did my best to keep things engaging. I was scrambling to stay ahead of my students in the textbook – if not by a chapter, at least by a few sections – and I loved it, even though I was pretty sure it would kill me my very first year.
But as week seven loomed, it was time to break things up a bit. We needed a… a… project of some sort. Something hands-on – maybe collaborative! Something where they did most of the work while I caught up with grading, and lesson-planning, Something sort of fun, but still, you know… educational – or at least educational enough.
But what to assign? What sort of project should it be?
I vaguely recalled something from teacher school about the importance of “student choice.” I wasn’t ready to let them write classroom policy or make up their own curriculum, but surely this was a prime opportunity for them to practice that “efficacy” stuff with which my methods professor had been so enamored. OK. That’s what we’ll do. Sweet – consider this lesson planned, baby!
The following Monday I began to share the good news with my kids. “You’re going to be doing a project over Chapter Twelve. You’ll have today to read through the chapter, figure out what sorts of things are important or which parts you find interesting, then you’ll have the next few days to decide how you’re going to show me that you understand the content. It will be due sometime next week once we see how it goes. Any questions?”
There was silence for what seemed like an oppressively long moment. I knew they’d be excited at this new freedom, but I hadn’t figured on such extended awe or their apparent reverence at my technique and benevolence. Finally, Colby raised his hand.
Colby was maybe the first time I really understood what a mess kids could be and remain, you know… loveable. I’d never experienced teenagers like this before – witty, fun, broken, hurting, desperate for approval, defiant of most control. I’d get to know a wide variety of them over the years, but Colby was the first who really stood out. He deserved more than I had to offer back then; I lacked the experience or wherewithal to offer much more than a kind adult presence in what I suspect was a rather chaotic teenage life. And – in my blurry memories of those first years, at least – this was his finest moment.
“Yes, Colby?”
“So… what kind of project do you mean, exactly? Are you going to tell us?”
“No. I’m going to let you choose. You’ve done projects before. There must be some kinds you like and others you don’t, so I’m going to let you figure out how you want to show me what you know for this one.”
A second kid, whose name I’ve long since forgotten: “So, like… a poster?”
“It could be a poster. Something that covers the parts you think are important or interesting.”
A third: “Do we have to present them in class?”
I hadn’t thought about that. Best not to show weakness, however – especially since the room wasn’t looking or feeling as joyful and creative as I’d anticipated. More like they were… restless. Confused. Possibly hostile.
“Not unless you want to. If it’s that sort of project.”
There was some murmuring. Nothing overtly defiant, but in later years I would learn to recognize the fundamental shift which occurs when students begin to figure out that they’re not alone in their questions or isolated in their concerns. It’s not quite a mob mentality, but it’s close enough to merit raising internal shields and going to yellow alert.
That’s when Colby spoke up again.
“Mr. Blue, I think we need a better idea of what we’re supposed to do here.” (Agreement from the room.)
I was new. I may have been a bit defensive.
“Well, Colby, I’m trying to give you guys some freedom on this one… I thought you’d be happy…”
“But Mr. Blue – sometimes fences set us free.”
The rest of the story has blurred a bit as I’ve retold it over the years, but that moment is locked forever in my teacher psyche. My oracle, Colby of the Frazzled Hair.
After what felt like twenty minutes or so of stunned silence on my part, I asked how’d they’d feel about reading the chapter that day as originally planned, and the following day I’d have three or four options from which they could choose. Then, if they had a better project idea, they could still suggest it?
This was an acceptable compromise and while the room didn’t exactly go full “To Sir, With Love,” we at least avoided “Rufio!” chants or scenes from “Lord of the Flies.”
I don’t remember what options I came back with the next day, but I must have had a few. Most of that class is a blur after all these years, but I still remember Colby – hand in the air, that ubiquitous and torn Ramones t-shirt, never backing down from me or anyone else when he believed himself in the right.
Which he usually did.
I’ve appreciated that moment more times than I can count since then. Even when I’m giving students freedom with assignment particulars, I try to provide options – defaults of some sort if they lack better ideas. I’ve tried to be focus on goals more than guidelines, in hopes that students will zero in on the learning rather than obsessing over the rubrics.
Results have, of course, been mixed.
I’m not sure teachers ever fully resolve the question of precisely how much direction to give. Too much, and students are simply jumping through our hoops; too little, and they panic, drift, or otherwise lose their way. Some of that is on them, of course – students aren’t always intrinsically driven to consider the ultimate purpose of a task and ponder how best to make that happen, grades be damned.
But some of it’s on us – collectively if not individually. In the end, we know everything has to be converted into a grade, a score, an explanation, a letter value. Every percentage has to be justified and every task correlated to someone’s overly garrulous “standards.” Besides, without clear guidelines, students turn in the weirdest work sometimes – and what are we supposed to do then?
And it’s not just assignments. Great teachers have clear expectations and procedures; they also adjust based on circumstances. Technology filters allow us to put computers in every classroom with minimal lawsuits, then block everything we try to do with them. Administrators love to celebrate the “village” or the “family” gathered during mandatory meetings, but scrupulously avoid actually getting to know individual teachers for fear of compromising their imagined status or authority.
The scaffolds designed to support us too easily morph into cages preventing us from doing whatever we were supposedly learning to do. The rules, instructions, and policies written in service of our pedagogical goals and ideologies surreptitiously overthrow and replace them. Do our fences help define our essential tasks and relationships, or shield us from the uncomfortable, learning, stretching, human parts? Do they provide guidance, or merely mask the need to think, innovate, or meaningfully connect?
We practice scales until we learn to solo; we run set plays until we better ‘feel’ the game. Teachers model their lessons after the successes of others until they find their own way. There’s nothing wrong with any of that. At the other extreme lie standardized tests, scripted lessons, and regimented lesson planning requirements. These are death. You’d think we could just split the difference, but it’s not always clear what that looks like in real time with real students.
I don’t think Colby had anything quite so complicated in mind twenty years ago. I’m pretty sure he was just reading the room and speaking up when others weren’t certain how.
I saw him once, years later, at a convenience store on the other side of town. He ran up and gave me a weird handshake of some sort which I, of course, messed up, but he didn’t seem to mind. He said I’d been his favorite teacher; I told him he’d been my favorite student (which has since become my autofill response in such situations). He laughed, recognizing the goodwill of my claim, if not literal accuracy. I heard him telling his friends who the guy was he was talking to as he got in the car and they drove off.
I have no idea what sort of project he turned in or what grade it may have earned, but I hope he eventually found some good fences. Maybe even some of that freedom he hoped they’d provide.
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But here’s what I can promise you – if you make “good choices” often enough, you will dramatically improve your odds. All that stuff we say so often you’re sick of it? Stay in school, work hard, don’t do drugs, don’t get pregnant, choose the right friends, don’t be a jerk to people – all of that matters more than you’d think. There are no guarantees, but if there were a hundred of you – exact clones – all trying different approaches, the ones who made the most “good choices” and “worked the hardest” would easily outshine those who simply coasted, and blow away those who chose the truly stupid things – especially if they did them over and over.
When you’re 7 or 10 or even 14, we don’t let you vote or drive or decide what you’ll eat or drink BECAUSE you’re not considered emotionally, mentally, or legally responsible enough to make such choices. I don’t say that to be demeaning; I say it because it’s not on you that your parents got a divorce, or that your dad is so angry all the time, or that you’re living in your car. It’s not on you that you were abused or neglected or born with something “wrong” with you.
That sort of sucks because it means that for the rest of your life going to be faced with decisions about how you use your time, where you apply your resources, and how you shape your odds. On the other hand, it means that every day – heck, every hour – is a chance to make different choices. Better choices.
SCENE—The cozy breakfast-room in the home of MR. and MRS. RICHARD JAMES VAN CLEEF. Young MR. VAN CLEEF strolls in and is considerably surprised to discover that his charming wife has preceded him, and, what is more, is placidly awaiting his arrival before ordering her own matutinal repast; such a thing being so unusual that MR. VAN CLEEF could scarcely tell the date of its last occurrence; and, furthermore, MRS. VAN CLEEF appears to be mildly interested in his arrival.
Helen Churchill Candee arrived in Gurthrie, O.T., in the mid-1890s, primarily because of the territory’s widely-advertised lax divorce laws and her desire to escape an abusive marriage. She’d come from a respectable New England upbringing and a life of some affluence, including travel, books, art, and an impressive formal education. While not necessarily an oddity in Oklahoma society, she was certainly not your average boomer. 
Satsuma was a type of Japanese dinnerware which could be a sign of substantial sophistication, but which was mass- produced by American factories during this time in imitation thereof. Taken together, this scattered collection acknowledges civilization, and reaches for it despite surroundings. What would prove a rather pathetic effort in other settings seems a noble declaration of values on the frontier. 
Helen Churchill Candee was born in 1858 as Helen Churchill (her mother’s maiden name) Hungerford of New York. Her father was a successful merchant, and Helen grew up in relative comfort both there and in Connecticut where the family moved shortly thereafter. More important than the physical provisions prosperity allowed, she was exposed to ideas and stories, music and art, history and culture, in ways unlikely to have been possible had she lived a generation before, or anywhere else. 
Oklahoma Territory had them all beat, however. Ninety days – that’s how long you needed to establish residency. Three short months and you were eligible to file. If your soon-to-be ex didn’t show, the court appointed someone to speak on his or her behalf, whether they knew their “client” or not. Generally, things were wrapped up in time to grab some lunch before getting back to watching lazy hawks circle in the sky and whatnot.
Between 1896 and 1901, Candee wrote six pieces for five different periodicals about Oklahoma Territory and life therein. They’re strong enough to consider individually, but what they demonstrate consistently is her knack for capturing things like crop production reports and detached observations on cultural evolution while always circling back to the human experience that makes all the rest of it matter.