Scaffold The $#*& Out Of It

March 27, 2020June 4, 2023 ~ Blue Cereal

My students are not typical of those I’ve had in the past. I’ve had plenty of diversity in my 22+ years of public education, but it’s always been just that – diversity. My current school is not particularly diverse. Sure, there’s a mix of haggard white kids and not-particularly-prosperous Hispanic students walking the halls, but by far the greatest majority of my darlings are poor, Black, and from backgrounds the rest of us might cautiously clump together as “complicated.”

So it’s been a learning experience.

The most bracing realization was that pretty much nothing I’d ever done in class with any other group of students actually works here. That’s not an attack on them so much as a confession of my own shortcomings. I’ve been riding high on personality and pedagogy-with-a-flair for quite a few years, and finding out that I was incapable of successfully communicating, for example, the “iceberg” approach to analyzing a short story (the author uses the “ice” above the water – the details in the story – to hint at the larger realities just below the surface) was humbling.

I’d rather not even discuss the results of our efforts to recognize ethos, logos, and pathos is persuasive writing, commercials, or print ads. It was… messy.

But hey – I’ve been to teacher school. Once. A long time ago. I’ve got one of them “toolboxes” we always hear about, stuffed onto a shelf somewhere in my metaphorical pedagogical garage. This is doable, right?

Right?

The Five Paragraph Essay

For those of you new to education, there are several things you can bring up in any gathering of teachers to virtually GUARANTEE a complete and total breakdown of whatever was SUPPOSED to be happening. “So… what’s our primary goal as educators, exactly?” is a classic – both unanswerable and constantly answered poorly. “How should our honors/advanced/GT/AP classes be different than our regular/on-level/academic classes?” is another sure-fire disrupter. Oh, and I particularly enjoy overtly ethical and unavoidably emotional conundrums: “Do we really want students missing class because they’re not properly aligned with our outdated and possibly misogynistic ideas about clothing?” or “Should attendance really matter if they can demonstrate they can do the work and have mastered the skills?”

It’s good times, I assure you.

For English or Social Studies teachers (especially those frothy AP types), the Holy Hand Grenade of rapport-killers is the Five Paragraph Essay. Come out in favor, come out opposed, or simply mention it in passing, and off the rest of us will go. Only Wikipedia and Teach For America have achieved similar infamy for their ability to produce pseudo-intellectual chaos and mutual hostility, online or in the teachers’ lounge.

Honestly, you’d be better off bringing up religion, immigration, or abortion. Fewer emotions or deeply entrenched convictions in play that way.

The primary criticism of the Five Paragraph Essay is that it’s stifling. Students learn to plug-n-play to fit a format without any real conviction and little actual learning. It’s barely an evolutionary step up from fill-in-the-blank worksheets. Secondary teachers and college professors alike lament their students’ inability to break free once their minds have been trapped and corrupted by this five-part infection.

An essay should be however long it takes to say what you have to say! This “structure” practically DEMANDS bland, surface-level thinking and formulaic thesis statements! It destroys creativity and genuine thought! IT PRODUCES STUDENTS WHO ASK HOW MANY SENTENCES HAVE TO BE IN EACH PARAGRAPH!!!

Those voicing these complaints aren’t entirely wrong.

At the same time, there’s something to be said for structure. How much great rock’n’roll started with the same basic 12-bar blues? How grounded is most Occidental music in the standard 12-note chromatic scale? And while there are plenty of examples to the contrary, it’s still hard to beat the power of verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge-(verse)-chorus. And yet, somehow, music has managed to remain fresh and creative and meaningful and real.

Well, some of it, anyway.

If the musical example doesn’t resonate with you, there’s a comparable structure for planning a meal. Salads come first, maybe with a little bread. It’s typically green and one of two or three main varieties. The main course comes next, and ideally consists of one-quarter proteins, another quarter carbohydrates, and the remaining half some sort of vegetable. Dessert is last, and usually sweet.

Of course you can defy conventions if you wish. Have your green beans with your mousse or stir your salad into your iced tea. That sort of freedom periodically leads to brilliance and creativity, like whoever first thought to put ham or buffalo chicken on salad. Yum!

Generally, however – especially when you’re new to the process – there’s strength and security in following established wisdom.

I’ve previously compared writing with structure to making brownies from a box. It’s absurd for anyone with actual baking skills, but for someone at my amateurish level, those pre-measured ingredients and carefully diagrammed steps are a lifesaver. So are the instructions about how to put together my new desk or “how-to” guides for replacing the trim in your house. Even John Coltrane and Miles Davis mastered their scales before leaving the planet with their own ideas about what jazz could be.

And it seems I’ve come full circle back to the music metaphor. So be it.

I get that there are problems with the Five Paragraph Essay. For example, it’s unlikely most of my students will ever be called on to open with an attention-grabber, introduce what they’re going to say and how they’ll support it, elaborate on each of those points, then restate everything by way of conclusion. The so-called “real world” will rarely expect them to write this way and, unless you’re an old-school preacher, most of us don’t talk that way – and couldn’t, even if we wanted to.

On the other hand, at some point in their lives, assuming a modicum of personal or professional success, it IS likely they’ll be expected to explain a process, persuade a small group, or advocate for themselves or someone in their care. It may be formal, as part of a business presentation, or informal, standing at a customer service counter, or perhaps sitting across the desk from their child’s teacher or principal. It may be part of their effort to get a loan, defend themselves against a traffic ticket, or make a case at a community meeting for some policy or another.

While expressing themselves like a Five Paragraph Essay may not be the most effective approach, neither is their current default of “Tsst! Are you %&@4ing STUPID?!” The hope, then, is that by working on overall clarity and the necessity of supporting any argument with clear, rational thought, they’ll be better able to transfer this general skill to situations beyond the classroom.

Hey, we can dream, can’t we?

That is, in any case, the current reality in which I teach – or did before the Covid-19 beast descended. (I can’t wait for Easter when everything will be magically cured by saving the stock market.) As recently as a month or so ago, however, we were still just having school and trying to pry open their little minds and cram in some learnin’.

I don’t belong to a particularly organized English department. There’s no time built into the weekly (or yearly) schedule for collaboration or team-building or whatever, and as of March I don’t actually know the names of everyone who teaches the same subject I do. Meetings are infrequent and informal (although there were snacks last time), and most of the teachers I actually talk to regularly are a door or two in either direction in my hallway.

A few days ago, as I was passing by between classes, I casually asked a colleague how things were going. She was unexpectedly peppy in response.

“Great! We finally got through five paragraph essays!”

“That’s awesome. Were they any good?”

“Well… they weren’t all terrible, and that’s saying something.”

“I haven’t even come back to writing yet this semester. What’s your secret?”

“Secret? Ha – no secret. We just scaffold the $#*% out of it!”

Twenty years ago, I would have been intimidated by the terminology (the “scaffold,” not the “$#*&%”). I was getting by on enthusiasm and self-delusion and if I’d slowed down to think about anything too clearly, I’d have been Wile E. Coyote just after running off the cliff – he didn’t plummet until he looked down.

Ten years ago, I would have understood it, but been a bit dismissive. I had different kids then, and while I’d dramatically improved my grasp of pedagogy and child development, my students generally arrived with enough basic skills that my primary challenge was to engage and motivate so we could push towards greatness, not rehash the basics of playing school.

I genuinely love my little darlings this year, some because I choose to and others because I just can’t help it once I get to know them. Winning them over is still part of the equation – not for my benefit, but because it’s the only way most of them are likely to learn anything “academic” while in my care. I’ve learned not to make any assumptions about what they already know or what they can do – not because they’re “stupid” (they’re not), but because they’re such an unpredictable mix of ignorance and ability. They can definitely learn. They can even learn to enjoy learning. Their tolerance for challenge is low, however, and their frustration palpable at the slightest speedbump.

I can lament the loss of rose-colored “good ol’ days,” or I can put on my big-teacher panties and adjust based on the students in front of me and what they need if they’re to have any chance of moving forward. It just requires a different approach – one I’m finally mastering after 20+ years in the classroom.

We scaffold the $#*& out of it.

RELATED POST: In Defense of the 5-Paragraph Essay

RELATED POST: Freedom of Choice

RELATED POST: It’s A Structural Thing

Stop Saving History

June 4, 2019June 4, 2023 ~ Blue Cereal ~ 1 Comment

Welcome to my podcast. My professional development session. My keynote address. My #edreform movement. My next book.
As I’m sure you’ve noticed, everything sucked before I got here – especially how we teach history. All social studies-related education since time immemorial has been taught badly, usually by caricaturized coaches (whose good names we’ll implicitly besmirch throughout today’s presentation). They recited nothing but long lists of disconnected facts, usually in hours of monotone delivery, and demanded you memorize several hundred miscellaneous dates and the names of all dead white men – mostly warriors, kings, and presidents. When visuals were utilized, they were on transparencies, using the same overhead projectors they presumably received on their fifth birthdays when first chosen to haunt the living in this particular fashion.
They only assigned two things – infinite vocabulary lists or questions at the end of the chapter. On good weeks, though, you’d get a documentary on Friday. It usually involved an actual film projector so it could make that cool ‘rakkikikikikikikikik’ sound the entire time.
But no longer – I am here to save history and history education. I will speak of women, and individuals of color, heretofore unknown in all of publishing or pedagogy. I will tell of the ‘common man’ and hypnotize you with my colorful storytelling, a concept ne’er before dreamt of since before Horace Mann first established the Kingdom of Public Schooling. I will then engage you with what I call “activities” – you will speak to one another, and discuss multiple possible responses to open-ended questions, pausing only temporarily to weep with appreciative joy at what I’ve brought to your day. Finally, you will regurgitate – nay, reveal! – what you’ve learned through various multimedia projects, slathered in terms like “real audience,” “digital natives,” and, of course, “coding is the future.”
I hope you’re not overly disoriented – I realize the level of #amazeballs I’m about to bring can be a bit daunting at first.

Do I sound bitter? More than usual, I mean?

Maybe I am, a little. I just can’t take one more podcast intro, one more author’s forward, one more introductory activity built around the assertion that prior to about 2017, all public education – particularly in subjects related to history – ran pretty much as portrayed in your typical 1980s teen comedy. (Bueller? Bueller?)

I just don’t think that’s true. Sure, there were boring history teachers – boring everything teachers – just as there probably are now, although I think we oversell their prevalence. I’ve encountered a few rather dry specimens over the years, and even a very stereotypical coach or two. But they’re not the norm, and I’m not sure they ever were. I think we tend to recall our public school years through crud-colored glasses, mostly because we’ve been told to so often.

In the same way your memory of an event will gradually evolve to fit the way you tell it over the years, I respectfully suggest we’ve been told the same few lies about public schools – then as much as now – often enough that we’ve started to buy into the clichés. Unless we stop and question it, at least with ourselves, we become one more purveyor of the same sort of shibboleth – thoughtless, foundationless folderol of the sort we mock when we recognize it from others.

“I don’t see color…” (Oh dear god, you poor dear – how are you with age, gender, or object permanence?)
“I don’t vote for the party, I vote for the person…” (That’s adorable. Yes, you’re totally above the rest of us, mere slaves to whatever single initial appears parenthetically on the ballot. I wasn’t even aware there were specific people running!)
“Deep down inside, people are all the same…” (Yeah, that’s why we all understand one another and get along so well – especially across cultures and throughout time. Maybe your history teacher did suck…)
“We don’t really watch much TV…” (Just keep telling yourself that; besides, those 47 hours a week on Facebook and YouTube are mostly educational, right?)
“History isn’t boring; history teachers are boring. Especially in high school. Damned coaches.” (We seem to have come full circle.)

I call bullsh*t. Totally and loudly. I’ve simply sat in too many classrooms, had too many discussions at too many conferences, to buy this even a little. And it’s not just the current generation – many of them got into teaching because of the passion and creativity their teachers brought to everything they did. And yet, when people tell me about it, they always couch it in how lucky they were to have that one capable, energetic teacher alive in 1962, or in the entire state of Iowa, or whatever. Even their own personal real-life experiences have been relegated to the “What are the CHANCES?!” bin thanks to the power of the “History Normally Sucks” narrative.

(Perhaps it should provide me some sense of continuity that the same basic phenomenon infects discussions of modern education policy, as the vast majority of people are quite happy with their child’s school and their kid’s teachers but remain nevertheless convinced that public education as a whole must still be a disaster.)

I’m glad you’re moving past “Great Man” history. I’m thankful you’re incorporating critical thinking or student movement or kinetic technological STEAM-worship or whatever. Yay for telling good stories in memorable ways. I genuinely love your podcast – for totes realsies – and I appreciate your professional development ideas. I might even buy your book. You know much that I don’t and have so many great ideas, all of which I’m ready to hear.

But for the sake of all that is true, can we try a different launching pad than the conjured up corpse of history-education-ala-days-gone-by? You’re doing such a great job bringing historical figures and events to life, giving them personality and providing us with interesting context and perspective. Why do to the pedagogy of the past what you’re so effectively fighting against in regards to everything else?

Do keep going with the rest of it, though. Please. There’s enough history and enough ways to teach it that we’re unlikely to run out of content or tire of finding new ways to think about it. I’m sorry I got all snippy there for a bit – it’s just kind of a sore spot for me. Please, carry one with what you were saying after the annoying part. I for one, can’t wait to hear more.

RELATED POST: Teach Like You

RELATED POST: Hole In The Wall Education

RELATED POST: First Class, or Coach?

Tearing It Up

August 31, 2018June 4, 2023 ~ Blue Cereal ~ 1 Comment

We’re exactly two weeks into the new school year, and things in AP World and AP U.S. History have started off about as well as one might expect, given the many interruptions and the wide variety of skill levels and content-knowledge gathered together in each section.

They may be talented teenagers, but they’re still, you know… teenagers.

Last year was a bit rocky at times, and it was important to me that this year start strong. I’m not claiming anything particularly magical has occurred, but so far it’s been a decent balance of high expectations and just enough compassion for those finding the learning curve a bit steeper than they’re used to. Overall, though, I’ve been damn near legit. (I’ll even go out on a limb and say that, as a general rule, feeling like you more or less know what you’re doing is quite a bit more enjoyable than feeling like you’re in over your head and are probably ruining the future in a dramatic, easily-traceable-to-you fashion.)

And then it happened.

I was being all pedagogical, sitting in my classroom at the end of the day and pondering options for the morrow, when the most ridiculous, artsy-fartsy revelation popped into my head.

We should do tear art!

For those of you unfamiliar with the idea, tear art involves stacks of variously-colored construction paper and plenty of cheap glue sticks. Students are given a time period or range of topics, and – without revealing their choices to anyone around them – use their little hearts, minds, and hands to tear out shapes and glue them onto a base page, or to one another.

No scissors allowed. No rulers. No compasses, staples, astrolabes – not even a hole punch. And no numerals or letters – you cannot write on your tear art with any form of pen, pencil, or marker, nor can you tear the paper into alphanumeric figures. It’s shapes and colors and glue, baby – working together to convey knowledge, insight, and understanding.

It’s great for certain age groups or types of students. It lends itself well to topics involving social movements, artistic expressions, strong emotions, or other intangibles best represented impressionistically. (One of my girls asked me suspiciously today where I’d come up with the idea, eventually sharing that her mom used it with her in-patients at a local “psych ward” – which I’m pretty sure is teenager code for some sort of mental health care facility for young people in the area.)

But for reviewing initial European contact with Amerindians or the various approaches of the Spanish, French, and English towards colonization?

Not so much, surely.

I toyed with the idea a bit, and repeatedly discarded it. We weren’t at a logical point for breaking our serious, focused, AP-momentum just yet. The strengths of the activity didn’t really fit this type of content. And, while I prefer not to admit it, I’m to some extent still trying to prove myself in some way I can’t quite put my finger on – a sensation no doubt rooted in my own needs and dysfunctions rather than anything external.

So, no – not tear art. Not now. Not here.

But it just kept coming back to mind.

I eventually made the mistake of checking my supply closet and had plenty of construction paper – although I have no recollection as to why. (I haven’t done the activity in years.) I’d need a few more glue sticks, but those are cheap and Wal-Mart still has all their school supplies on—

NO! LOOK, SELF… you’ve already put together the close reading thing with those colonial documents and that “City on a Hill” excerpts, and they’re just starting to get the hang of primary sources. Save the artsy-fartsy for, I don’t know… some other time. Some time it makes more sense.

Not that playing with colored paper and glue really fits anywhere in the AP curriculum, but still…

*sigh*

As an over-thinker, the dilemma quickly evolved. Soon it was no longer about sticking to the orthodox stuff vs. trying the artsy-fartsy – it became, in my mind, about whether or not I was going to follow my gut and do something that might look stupid (hell, it might be stupid), or go with the perfectly good alternative lesson plan that was entirely justifiable and appropriate for the theoretical confines of the course and wouldn’t look severely weird if someone were to drop in for a visit in the middle of things.

It became about whether or not I was going to take a risk based on twenty years of trying weird crap that sometimes turns out to be brilliant, sometimes turns out to be *SHRUG*, and sometimes completely wastes 72 minutes of our collective lives that can never be recovered or redeemed. It became about whether or not I was willing to fail this early in the year, practically on purpose, when it was so very important to me not to – at least not now. Not this soon. Not after last year.

It sounds far more noble writing about it after the fact – like my face at some point transformed into a beacon of resolve and understanding, my hair blowing majestically as I gaze up and to the right of the camera, smirking heroically until we cut to commercial. There was still a very real chance that the whole idea was still going to be stupid and would not only waste an entire class period but undercut some of the momentum and credibility I’d started to build with this group. That’s not even taking into account how common it is for peers or evaluating administrators to drop in this time of year to observe. (What’s the code on the rubric for “looks like it’s all going to pedagogical hell in a badly torn-and-glued basket”?)

We did the tear art. It wasn’t a disaster. I mean, it was a bit messy, but that was to be expected. And I hadn’t covered ‘glue etiquette’ in my syllabus.

But most students enjoyed it. The traditionally excellent were pushed a bit out of their comfort zone, but they managed (no surprise there). The majority seemed to find it cathartic. The ones who committed themselves to it actually learned a few things, as did those who remained attentive as each class member in turn held up their final product and the rest of the class guessed what it represented.

So it wasn’t an utter embarrassment. That’s good.

But was it a great use of time? I’m not sure. I think so, but I couldn’t back it up with data or anything. Based on informal feedback, a number of them reworked and rethought the material, making it stickier and more meaningful. Others, not so much.

But even if the only accomplishment was that it was kinda fun while still reinforcing content, I’m comfortable with that in moderation. So many things impact how well students will work for you, learn for you, most of them completely out of our control. Maybe it was a release, or a rapport-builder, or some other intangible that will make tomorrow (when we get to those primary sources I’m so genuinely excited about) more effective, more meaningful. Maybe it helped pull back the rubber band of learning before snapping the arm of ignorance.

Or maybe we just played with glue for an hour in the name of college-level history. I’m still not 100% certain.

So this is not a heroic story, let alone a promo for tear art. What it is, I think, is my small effort to confirm whatever it is your gut is telling you. It’s very unlikely I’ll do anything truly crazy – I’m not against shattering paradigms, but that’s just not me. I believe very much in balancing what I think sounds “interesting” with what’s fundamentally sound – useful, professional, appropriate. I started my career twenty years ago relying almost exclusively on energetic good intentions and a modicum of wit; I like to think that over time I’ve learned some of the science of the gig, and that I go to that proverbial “tool box” before leaping once again off the cliff after that demented muse who for some reason still taunts me from time to time.

But I hope my need to play it safe, or my desire to maintain credibility with peers or others, never completely overrides the recklessness of that first decade or so, or those random moments of “what if?” More than that, I hope you, my Eleven Faithful Followers, will take a moment to ponder whatever it was that convinced you to educate the spawn of others for a living (already a crazy concept). Whatever it was that you envisioned or tried or did before “reality” set in, or test results were posted, or your peers got that look on their faces, I hope you’ll consider trying it again, or chasing that weird new idea you had over the summer, or nailing down that stupid “we should really” you and that one colleague keep kicking around.

It might be stupid, but it might be brilliant. It might fall somewhere in between. But you’ll pick up such colorful scraps, and may even find yourself smirking a bit as you scrub the glue off your podium.

RELATED POST: Teach Like You

RELATED POST: The Sticker Revolution

Actual Reflections (and too many questions)

January 9, 2018June 4, 2023 ~ Blue Cereal ~ 1 Comment

My school is on trimesters, so coming back wasn’t a new start so much as picking up where we left off. Still, having two weeks to regroup and get a jump on some of the planning for this month was, well… it may have saved my life. At least emotionally.

Whatever the formatting of the –mesters, it’s a new year, calendrically-speaking. Last time I set out to reflect it ended up being a bit of a socio-political meltdown, so I set it all aside for a week of James Bond, Stars hockey, Who’s Line marathons, and Redd’s Blueberry Ale.

It was nice.

Now it’s time to put the big teacher panties on and get back to work. I’m in a new state, a new school, teaching a new subject in a very different environment than before, and while I love it here, and I’m surrounded by amazing people, the learning curve…

I mean, damn. I hate learning curves when they’re mine.

But that’s OK. It’s not like I’m a complete neophyte. I’ve taught a variety of subject to a weird range of students over the years – sometimes in less-than-ideal circumstances – and done fairly well. This is not a profession in which one’s primary concern is boredom.

Besides, actually, throughout my life, my two greatest assets have been mental stability and being, like, really smart. I went from VERY successful retail manager, to a daily Classroom inspiration and highly Respected education consultant…..

….to Major Social Media presence and THE Blue Cereal Education (on my first try). I think that would qualify as not smart, but genius….and a very stable genius at that!

It’s in that most stablest and geniussy context that I’ll confess up front that I have more questions than answers. I realize how trite that sounds, and I’d rather dazzle you with catchy memes about open-ended inquiry being foundational to all wisdom, but… honestly? There are times I’d much rather have clear, simple solutions. Like now.

How Important Is It For Students To Like Their Teachers?

I’m not even sure this is the right question, or at least not the whole question. The issue is in any case more complicated than it sounds.

How important is it for students to trust their teachers? To respect their teachers? To believe that their teacher likes and/or respects them?

I’ll tell you this – things are much easier when students like and trust you. A helluva lot more fun, too. Kids who don’t love the content sometimes play along for the rapport. Kids frustrated with your expectations might complain, but generally go where you lead if they believe you’re looking out for them – AND that you know what you’re doing. “Mark my footsteps, my good page – tread thou in them boldly. Thou shalt find each history page will freeze thy blood less coldly…”

You can write about self-directed learning all you like, and I’m not arguing with how neato that must be – but I don’t meet many of these intrinsically-driven, hungry-for-struggle children. I have to woo and cajole and model and demand in impossible combinations for most progress to occur. It’s exhausting some days.

But there are those light bulb moments when kids who’ve been treading along with you solely because they’re pretty sure if they show effort you won’t fail them although you’re obviously insane and maybe some kids can do this but there’s no way they’ll ever—

Wait. This… did I just… you mean it…? OH MY GOD WE SEE IT NOW! THE KNOWLEDGE ENDORPHINS ARE MY NEW HOLY PLACE!!! WE ARE THINKY-MAN AND MAD HISTORY SKILLZ GURL!

You Were Saying, About Liking and Trusting…?

I love my kids by choice, but I also genuinely like most of them this year. (That doesn’t always happen, no matter what fluff-and-donuts you see on Twitter.) I’m also sure most of them know that I love them. Very few seem to actively dislike me.That last one isn’t a deal-breaker, but it’s convenient when they don’t hate you every day. That makes everything harder.

So, it’s not personal when things aren’t going well. Several of my better students, hanging out in my room by choice the other day, talking about life, and apparently genuinely interested in my honesty, casually mentioned that half the time they just don’t get this class, don’t really like the subject, and wish we did a number of things quite differently.

I wonder if Houdini, in his waning hours, found time to be flattered that his final visitor thought so highly of his abdominal muscles as to preclude any thought of pulling his punches. The comment stung, and it wasn’t the first time I’d heard similar sentiments – from solid students, good kids who were doing well in the class. They clearly meant no offense, and seemed oblivious to my near-death and subsequent internal wailing and gnashing.

I’m genuinely glad they’re comfortable being honest. It wasn’t personal. And not everyone finds the same things stimulating, or challenging, or interesting.

But while they like me well enough, they lack a foundation for trusting the way we’re doing things. Some of this is because it’s their first AP class, and some is because I’m new in the district and don’t yet have a “track record.” Some of it, though – and I hate this part – is because there are definitely things I should have done better, organized more effectively, known more about, handled differently.

That’s why it stung – because they weren’t entirely wrong.

A similar group a few days later suggested the reason so many resisted my approach was because it was no longer enough to just remember and recite the ‘right’ answers the way they always have – they’re expected to analyze what they know, and to apply it in unexpected ways.

I like that answer better. They weren’t wrong, either, but that doesn’t make the first group less correct.

The only way I know to fix the credibility issue is to be credible. That can only be done over time. Which brings me to…

How Important Is It For Teachers To Master Their Content?

We tell new teachers all the time that it doesn’t matter whether they know everything there is to know about their subject as long as they know how teach it and the kids know they care. We then tell them it’s OK that they don’t know everything there is to know about how to teach, as long as the kids know they care and they’ll get better at it over time.

Both of these things are true enough – for new teachers.

But really knowing and understanding your content and related skills does matter. It matters in your effectiveness, it matters in your credibility, and it matters in terms of how often you go home at the end of the day feeling like you suck and may have single-handedly destroyed the future and it’s only Wednesday.

I’ll feel better when I know the content better. I’ll do better when I’m more comfortable with the skills. Those things are both fixable – I have a “learning mindset,” after all – but like so many other things, they take time.

Am I Teaching To The Test? When Do I Stick To The Curriculum and When Do I Follow the Rabbit of Oh-My-God-I-Saw-A-Glimmer-Of-Interest?

I’ve written about this previously, and while I’m at peace with my awkward balance in theory, that hardly resolves the daily details. A related dilemma involves pushing ahead versus slowing down and sacrificing next week’s content and skills to better understand last week’s.

Most of you know exactly what I’m talking about because you wrestle with variations of this every week.

Am I Being Responsive To The Needs Of My Kids Or Just A Touch… Insecure?

We all know the stereotypes. The dry old fart who uses the same transparencies he inherited from his undead sire a century ago, uninterested in and incapable of change. Kids should adjust to him or take the consequences. The touchy-feely mess of frosted flakes in a frump-sweater, like Pauline Fleming in Heathers. (“I suggest we get everyone together in the cafeteria – both students and teachers – and just… TALK, and… FEEL! Together!”) She’d go to their parties if they’d invite her. The approval of teenagers is her only source of self-esteem.

Neither is typical, and neither is fair. But it’s genuinely not always easy to know when to adjust based on student response and when to stick to your guns believing you know what’s best.

If I could have an answer to only one of my dilemmas, I’d probably start with this one. It’s tethered to a larger argument in education – the false dichotomy we’ve set up on social media between “grit-suffer-boot-camp-crush-them-for-progress!” and “nurture-cookies-love-coddle-them-into-excellence.” Kids simply aren’t that homogenous, nor most circumstances that binary.

Ideally, we’re all studied professionals, networking on social media, having hard conversations and sharing risky reflections within our departments, then moving ahead boldly, confident in the pedagogy and the kids alike. We adjust, we assess, we love, and we continue to learn, and at some point we hear the distant notes of Mr. Holland’s Opus being played down the hall saying maybe we did OK.

Sometimes, though, we’re just doing the best we can – kicking pedagogical booty one day and wondering if our brother-in-law can still get us that gig at his insurance office the next. That’s O.K. As long as we keep going, and getting better when we can.

I’m still looking for ways to be more effective, but I’m done worrying that it’s not right or not enough – at least for now. I’ll let you know how it goes.

RELATED POST: Teachers Are Delusional

RELATED POST: Teach Like You

My Karma Ran Over My Dogma (A Confessional)

December 11, 2017June 23, 2023 ~ Blue Cereal ~ 2 Comments

I always swore I’d never be one of those teachers. You know the type – frustrated and hostile, blaming their kids, and longing for the “good ol’ days.” To be honest, I’ve often kinda looked down on that flavor of educator – wondering why they’re still in the classroom, and hoping they find somewhere else to work out their issues. Besides, they give the rest of us – with our superior ideals and natural love of children – a bad name. It’s shameful!

But I hereby confess to you, my eleven faithful followers, that I am paying for that vanity. Dearly. Pride had a few laughs, and now… well, it’s been a long fall.

I rarely said it out loud, of course. I reject teacher-shaming in general, whatever its source. But I thought it. I felt a tiny bit superior. I may have rolled my eyes on occasion. I know I sighed a few times.

And I’m sorry.

It’s not like I’m blindly idealistic. We have to be realistic about the children in front of us. I’ve never bought into the suggestion that they’re “natural learners,” hungry for knowledge and ready to tackle any challenge if only we’d get out of the way and let them project-base, flip, and collaborate towards all those future jobs that supposedly don’t exist yet.

Nonsense.

I love my kids, but they’re almost… people – and people tend to do what’s easy and feels good unless we fight it. Constantly. Without external limits or learned self-control, we are shallow, savage creatures. To paraphrase the prophet Jeremiah, “the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?”

None of which actually bothers me most of the time. They’re kids. They’re not supposed to be ready to run everything. That’s why we make them come to school.

What is currently harshing my shiny is their stubborn conflation of two very different reactions towards academic expectations in this class – this optional class, this college-level coursework class, up for which they chose to sign.

What many of them are experiencing – what they’re feeling – is something along the lines of “I really don’t want to do this” or “this is hard and I’m not used to that… I do not like this feeling!”

But they don’t know that’s what they’re feeling, or at least they don’t want to admit it. Instead, they’ve substituted some interesting variations. “I can’t do this” is by far the most popular, followed closely by “I don’t like this and it is therefore invalid,” or my personal favorite, “this is stupid and horrible and wrong on every level; I must direct all of my energies towards denial and/or escape!”

You see the difficulty.

They’re not stupid. If they were, I’d be nicer to them. And while I’m far from the perfect teacher, neither am I insane or pedagogically naïve. I have some idea what I’m doing, even when I’m not clear exactly what they think is happening, or why.

So my lofty words and nurturing convictions have run up against the cruel karma of vanity and presumption. Well, that and their emotions. And backgrounds. And the twisted culture surrounding them.

They may intend, for example, to finally read the assigned material tonight. They’ll stall a bit, but eventually open the text, skimming a line or two before their internal dialogue takes over:

“The 15th century was defined by revolutions – the scientific revolution, the Renaissance, European adaptation of—”
“This doesn’t make any sense.”
“This is too much work.”
“Why do we even have to know this?”
*sigh*

“As western Europe expanded their role as the center of world commerce—”
“I hate this book.”
“Mr. Blue is insane if he thinks this somehow teaches me anything.”

“Maybe I’m just stupid. Except Monica doesn’t get it either, so that proves this is all just POINTLESS! Why doesn’t my counselor let me OUT of this CLASS?! I’M DOING EVERYTHING I CAN!?”
“My phone is buzzing. I’ll just check it real quick…”
{73 minutes later, the phone is put down because the battery is low.}
“That’s it – no more. I just spent an hour and a half on this and hardly remember ANY of it! I quit!”

I’m not even mocking them. (Well, maybe a little.) The experience is real, even if the reality is absurd. And that “can’t-shouldn’t-won’t” mentality tries to take over in class as well:

“You expect us to read all of this stuff ourselves? How can we know what’s important unless you give us some sort of guide?”

(I give them a guide.)

“I spent the whole time trying to do the stupid guide instead of actually learning!”

(I make the guides optional.)

“I hate this textbook. It’s so confusing.”

(They have a point on that one. I compile articles from a variety of sources, formatting and copying them as more engaging alternatives.)

“We’re just supposed to… read these? That doesn’t make any sense. Why are we reading in a history class?”

(Not sure how to respond to that one without sounding outright spiteful.)

“I’m not going to remember any of this by just reading it. We need to DO something with it.”

(We learn annotation, practice level questions, and apply other tried’n’true reading strategies. They turn in half-ass efforts and thus receive half-ass scores.)

“Why did I get a bad grade? I can read and understood this stuff without all that marking on it and everything!”

(I begin drinking more in the evening.)

“You should lecture more. I like your lectures.”

(Huh. That’s practically a positive. Alrighty, then – I put together some brief, interactive lectures… heavy on visuals and connections. Embed some media. A few small group moments. Takes me forever.)

“What are we—” {they see the screen}

“Oh.” {as if it’s toenail-swallowing day} “Lecture.”

(I wonder if they can sense my growing resentment. Probably not – that would require their attention. OK… there are some engaging, briskly-paced videos over this unit they can watch at home. I make a playlist and eliminate other homework.)

“No one watches those, you know. Aren’t you supposed to be the teacher?”

*sigh*

(More drinking. Well… they want to talk all the time. Let’s do something collaborative.)

{They choose their groups} “So then I was like, ‘I’m not sending you anything, loser!” *laughter and cackling and limited productivity*

{I choose the groups} “Why did you stick me with these people? I’d rather work alone.”

(OK. Partners are optional. And we’ll try something creative. Artsy-fartsy, even.)

“We have to COLOR?! How is that related to HISTORY?! Can I just write a paper or something?”

(OK, write a paper.)

“I hate writing. Everyone else got to color! How is that fair?!”

You get the idea.

There’s nothing wrong with a little variety. We’re always talking about that teacher “toolbox” and all those supposed “learning styles.” And generally, once you’ve won most of them over, they’ll try pretty much anything you ask because they trust you, or like you, or have otherwise decided to play school with you.

But if you haven’t… if they won’t…

It’s just…

DAMMIT.

Seriously. Just $&%#@*! and a baby goat.

You could go sell boats with your brother-in-law. He’s a windbag and a tool, but his house is twice the size of yours and he took his family to Hamilton last month; all you’ve got is the soundtrack you copied (is that even legal?) from the CD in your school library.

It’s just maddening sometimes.

Look, you feel what you feel. Own it, baby. If you’re hurt, you’re hurt. If you’re resentful, confess that resentment. And my darlings, if you feel stupid and beaten, just throw those arms open and soak in it for a moment. All those hours, all that potential, all of your genuine love for those freakin’ little ingrates – and they just… it doesn’t…

Hmph.

But you can’t stay there. Don’t become that caricature you’ve been trying to avoid since you were young and idealistic. Own that tenebrosity, and feel those uglies, but don’t marinate too long or you’ll lose your texture and the rice will burn.

Because the underlying reality remains. They’re teenagers, you’re the adult, and you’ve taken on a professional responsibility to learn them up good and hard whether they want it or not. The rest of the world thinks this is just a matter of “making them,” but you know better – no one can make anyone do anything.

If that weren’t obvious before this year, it certainly is now.

You’ll figure something out, or you won’t. They’ll get it, or they won’t. But you’ll keep trying, because you love them, and because you believe what you’re trying to teach them matters. Period. You’ll keep going because you decided long ago that this is what you do. Sometimes it’s glorious, and sometimes you lie in bed at night praying for snow. LOTS of snow. Or cholera. Maybe nuclear holocaust. You’d push the big red button yourself if it meant you didn’t have to see third hour again this week.

So what if it seems increasingly unlikely that Denzel Washington or Nathan Fillion will be playing me in one of those martyr-teacher movies – at least not one based on this year? I still sometimes manage DC’s Legends of Tomorrow territory – well-intentioned clusterfoolery that works itself out over time. And that’s OK. Progress is sporadic and incremental.

But I will not be so quick to judge those teachers next time, or to inwardly smirk at the superiority of my ideals and natural rapport over theirs. That was wrong even before the universe struck back.

Now that it has…

Well, dammit.

RELATED POST: Teachers Are Delusional

RELATED POST: My 300 Epiphany