Search results matching tag 'monday metaphor'

White Noise

Anonymous — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 11:50:00 GMT

Joel asks me, "Daddy, why do people say black and white people when everyone is brown?"

"So you think we all look alike?"

"No, but some have dark brown and some have light brown. My friend Dylan is light brown but his hair is all curly like people who have dark brown skin," he explains.

It's an honest conversation about race and I get scared throughout it, wondering how to handle race and social justice with a five year old.

"Daddy, why are most of the teachers light brown? Why aren't there more dark brown teachers?"

White noise.

I had a principal who painted over two building-sized murals that students had painted. She said that white looked more professional, so now there are loud white walls, hushed only by the defiant gestures of taggers marking their territory with their permanent ***.

White noise.

Our textbook teaches that the United States bought the southwest from Mexico. It wasn't an act of conquest. No, it was "expansion." Into, nothing, I suppose. The book doesn't mention the Apache wars for that matter. Our textbook ignores the often successful radical element of Civil Rights. I supplement with primary sources, but it's against the law in our state to teach students to think critically about the actions of the U.S. (And yet they ask us to teach citizenship.)

White noise.

As long as the status quo feels normal, it will feel deafening to my students. As long as we paint over murals and silence the voice of dissent, the white noise will feel louder, more shameful, a megaphone of the majority yelling down to the marginalized.

White noise.

Gas Cans and Algebra

Anonymous — Tue, 05 Apr 2011 03:40:00 GMT

I'm not sure when the fear began. Perhaps I saw a horrible local news report as a kid or maybe I made bold assumptions about gasoline and static electricity. However, I'm terrified of filling up the gas can for the lawn mower. Each time I fill up the gas can, I invision explosions and sirens and maybe a few bag pipes and choirs singing in Latin. I take a breath, fill up the tank and then relax afterward.

It gets easier each time, but the fear never ceases entirely. I recognize that it's irrational, but my heart still pounds and my mind races toward the visions of explosions. I have a hunch that I'd get over the fear if I had to fill up the gas tank each day. Ultimately, exposure and experience have a way of hacking away at fear in a way that logic and reason often can't.

So, it has me thinking of this school year. At the beginning of the school year, many students were terrified of algebra. For some it was fractions. They'd convert every fraction to a decimal in order to avoid the seeming improper. Others were scared of x. Perhaps it felt too abstract. Or maybe it reminded them of the shame of past math classes when they "just didn't get it."

At first I thought that my students needed better, clearer instructions. However, appealing to logic made little difference. Instead, I had to make it familiar. So "x" became the independent variable, that one part of math that you could manipulate and change and maneuver. We worked slowly, daily, with a constant sense of familiarity. Unlike the math book, we started with the scenarios, moved to the word problem and ended with the algorithms.

I used to think that the concept of an "affective filter" was simply educational jargon for mushy pop psychology. However, when I watched students shake and sweat and completely tune out at the sight of a complex algorithm, I realized that I had to consider the deeper emotional element. I had no control over their past experiences, their preconceived notions or their present perceptions. I now recognize that my students need to feel safe with a subject.

Ultimately, this sense of safety leads to a bizarre paradox where students who feel safe take more chances. So, students who once avoided innovative solutions now take risks and learn more in the process. I watch them move from a timid place of algebraphobia and into a place where they boldly tackle challenging problems.

Hey, feel free to check out my new book Drawn Into Danger: Snapshots of a Superhero in Training. It's a superhero memoir that is honestly a lot more fun than this blog about teaching. You can download it for a dollar or buy it in print for nine bucks.

drop the gavel

Anonymous — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 16:59:00 GMT

When I first started teaching social studies, I told my students, "I'ts not about the names and dates and figures. It's not about strong people who shaped history. The reason we learn history is to avoid the mistakes of the past." It had a nice progressive ring to it and the kids seemed relieved that they wouldn't have to memorize disconnected facts for the purpose of acing a kill-and-drill test.

Over the course of the year, I encouraged students to be the critics of the past. They held the gavel and weighed the evidence of the actions of the past. So, the *** were guilty, not only of the actions of war crimes, but also of the injustice of apathy. Malcolm X was a mixed figure, with some supporting his militant ideas and others thinking it went against the goal of human harmony and still others supporting the ideas of bold militancy but hating the homophobic and misogynist elements of the movement.

In the midst of that year, I visited my grandpa who shared what it was like to be in World War II. "We weren't any morally superior," he explained. "We were just kids put into a war and I saw things brought out the best and worst in people." He could never come to terms with the notion of an evil humanity or original sin or anything like that, choosing instead to think that an ideological fog had fallen on good people who did horrible things because they simply wanted to follow directions and live a quiet life with their family.

My grandpa could be shockingly progressive at moments (especially on the topic of Latinos and immigration) and then say something really racist in the next breath. I cringed when he would make comments about the Japanese ruining our auto industry. But it didn't change my memories of him taking us out for ice cream and telling us that we should get the colossal cone, because it was better to try something big and fail then to get one scoop and leave feeling like you could have tackled more. He said it just like that with the word "tackle," as if food were a game of football.

Everyone fit into the Good Guys and Bad Guys concept and we read peoples' lives as if they were the back of baseball cards and we were creating our own Fantasy History league full of people who would tell us the right and the wrong way to live. We'd have a nice and tidy list of do's and don'ts and we'd be better people in the end.

* * *

My grandpa is dead. He won't be in any history textbook, but he's still a part of my story. I don't hold a gavel when I think of him. I don't look at him with a pros and cons list to improve my moralistic philosophy of social justice. I don't read his life like a Behind the Music special where I can dissect each action and provide the information to an imaginary jury that will distill the verdict into a list of bulleted points about how to live.

The value in remembering him is the story. It's the sense of perspective that grows when I can get past the myopic context of now and see the larger human narrative. It's the way that his life helps me make sense out of my own life; not because we are so vastly different, but because we share the same universal conflicts. This might sound morbid, but there is something about the distance of a dead man to make the present a little more relevant. It's as if his voice is added to a dialog in a fresh way.

For all its flaws, I still need his voice.

My students need it, too. And that's the beauty of studying history. My students will hear a diverse conversation that will hopefully help them to make sense out of life.

Drunk Tetris

Anonymous — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 00:02:00 GMT

I'm sitting at a team meeting during my first year of teaching. In order to prove that we are "data-driven," (as opposed to say, "student-driven," which would be my preference) we sift through pages of graphs and charts, each with its own set of acronyms and abbreviations. RCBMS, AIMSWeb, AIMS, Galileo, DRA, DRP. The Special Ed kids have a test called Woodcock Johnson and apparently I'm not supposed to snicker when I hear the name.

"What general trends do you see?" asks a specialist. I'm not sure what exactly specialists are supposed to do, but I know that they specialize; which is essentially the problem. As a teacher, I don't specialize. I teach whole subjects to whole students. I don't see a score, I see a child.

"I guess the general trend I see is that our kids don't read very well," I say. Honestly, I could determine this trend with a simple five minute glance into my classroom.

"I need something more specific. What is the data saying to you?" she asks.

A teammate ventures out, "I think the picture is incomplete. We don't have enough data to prove anything. We have a few tests, but I'm not sure we can determine what is causing our students to fail at reading."

I use the term "teammate," but I don't really consider it a team unless we are allowed to scratch ourselves and spit sunflower seeds.

"It's like a puzzle. We have most pieces, but we don't have the complete picture, right?" I add, so our team begins to discuss ideas of how to gather more data and gain a more complete picture.

Finally our special education teacher speaks up. "It's not like a puzzle. It's like Tetris. Ideally data fits together and when it clears up it's transparent. It's smooth. The pieces fit nicely. But we have too much data. We have too many tables and charts and it's like we're on the ninth level and we're so overwhelmed that we're ready to throw our hands in the air and say, 'Game Over.' We have the data. What we lack is a lack of data."

The curriculum specialist adds, "It's like we're playing Tetris drunk. Sometimes I wonder if we get drunk on Data and miss out on why we need data in the first place."

So, we change our approach. Like Tetris, we see each test as being a different shape and potentially a great diagnostic tool to see both individual information and general trends. We begin to conference with students one-on-one and ask for student input. At times we bring in other test scores. More often, we have students self-assess their own work. The process is flexible and organic - less like a puzzle and more like a plant.

I begin to see that "data" is not inherently evil, but often a valuable aspect of knowing my students. I tell myself that it's "information" or "feedback" rather than "data," because of the scientific connotations. Yet, the special ed teacher reminds me, "This is science. It's science at it's best. It's inquiry and analysis and discovery. It's not a rigid structure, but an exploration."

At times it still gets clunky, but in most cases it's flexible and transparent and like a game of Tetris, we grow more transparent and eventually students move faster toward mastering their own learning.

meandering around the road blocks

Anonymous — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 17:13:00 GMT

"Mr. Spencer, I don't get it," a girl says pointing to her screen.

I briefly review the research chart and she says, "So, why is that we have to find our answers online?" After reminding her of the need for research, she adds, "Why can't we just watch videos instead?" I overhear a boy whisper, "This is boring," to his friend and I'm crushed.

I mention this, because I sometimes get this false, rosy picture about my classroom. I begin to believe that, since I focus on intrinsic motivation, kids automatically love my class. I assume that since I made the paradigm shift toward higher level thinking, kids will embrace the challenge of deeper thinking. Moreover, I tell stories in this blog that fail to mention the reality that class can get dull or unmotivated or even edgy.

The reality is that some kids will hate my class. Some kids will find lesson to be boring. Quite honestly, some lessons will be boring, because they are critical steps toward a more exciting project (in this case a documentary). Some children hate to work. Perhaps they learned that work is a punishment that demands a reward or they are so addicted to amusement that they can't see anything deeper than entertainment value. Every child is a story in progress and I walk into the plot without any prior knowledge of either the character or the setting, armed with only the slightest notion of theme.

Don't take it personally, John. But it is personal. It is deeply personal. I developed this lesson with my students in mind and the learning process is relational and right now there is a disconnect. I failed to create a learning experience that would motivate them. So it is personal, but what is the best personal response? Is it to lash out in anger? Is it to hide in defeat and self-protect? Or is it to focus on the students and forge a new path instead?

We're stuck at a road block and the hardest thing to admit is that the roadblock is my own creation. I failed to remind our group why we're moving along this path in the first place. So, I stop the lesson briefly and I tell a story about cooking and how there were parts that were boring (chopping up vegetables, for all its knife-wielding glory) and parts that required close attention to detail and parts that even got confusing. But in the end it worked.

A few students stare blankly, missing any notion of allegory or analogy, but we are now horizontal at least. If nothing else, they see that I can relate to their frustration with research. At this point, we discuss the research process. The answers are brisk and concise, but more of the students seem engaged. I ask the following questions: How does it feel to do research? (they discuss the sense of boredom and frustration) In what ways does frustration lead to learning? Why is it important to research? Why shouldn't the teacher be the source of all knowledge? Why is it important to base your opinions on fact? How will solid research help you in this project?

So, we lose about ten minutes of class time, but we gain it back with students who are more engaged. It's far from perfect. A few unmotivated students drag their feet, but at least they are moving (albeit slowly).

Note to Self: Sometimes it's best to meander away from the lesson plan, to admit that the process is failing and to work with the students instead of against them in order to help them see the value of learning.

broken mug

Anonymous — Tue, 26 Jan 2010 01:23:00 GMT

My thoughts on a coffee mug, my district and my own identity. You can also visit it at Internet Archive

a few crude metaphors

Anonymous — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 19:03:00 GMT

Our school is state-of-the art. Okay, it's more state-of-the-science in its layout and design. In order to run effeciently, the architects included a series of automated eco-friendly devices. While I am sure each device has helped reduce carbon emmisions, there is a downside to an automated ecology.

Often times the toilet will flush multiple times assuming that my lack of movement means I am finished. On many occasions, I find myself personifying the toilet and telling it, "I'm not done." When I grade papers, the lights suddenly shut off and onlookers can view my hand-waving, jumping "Let There Be Light" dance.

While the automated solution might save resources, it is less effective than the more human, albeit imperfect solution. I might not hold a doctorate in engineering, but I can flip a switch or pull a lever. Perhaps, overall, it is more effective. Maybe we are a nation populated by compulsive toilet flushers and light-addicts. However, on an individual level, I think I might have mastered those skills more effectively than my mechanical alternative.

Furthermore, the automated alternative fails in its promise of making life more convenient. Sure, I have to do less, but I have never before felt such an intense anger toward lights and toilets. In other words, the paradox of automation is that the more it tries to simplify life, the more life becomes complicated. Twitter is efficient, but it won't simplify my life. Cell phones might offer more options, but they do not save me time in the long run.

I mention all of this because I am helping with a reading intervention class. We have to use the Jonestown . . . er, Jamestown Reading Navigation System. Any unskilled teacher with semi-decent classroom management can walk around and make sure students click buttons correctly. Like the automated lights and the automatic flushers, the system is human-proof; and if you begin with the ideology that most teachers are lousy then the system is extremely effective.

My co-teacher subverts the system subtly by offering novels and informational text pieces that peak the students' individual interests as an "enrichment." She conferences with students and tutors them individually when necessary. One day she confesses to me, "I know Jamestown is convenient, but it's really not. What students really need is more time reading and a teacher who knows their individual needs. I can't prove this, but I've noticed from experience that no one has ever fallen in love with reading because of a program."

It has me thinking about the love of learning and the power of automated teaching. In many cases, worksheets are automatic flushers with student motivation swirling down the drain and scripted curriculum is the automated dimmer shutting out enlightenment and leading students toward darkness.

why gardening taught me structure

Anonymous — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 19:38:00 GMT

When I began gardening, I assumed that I would become acquainted with the messy, organic reality of life. On some level, that's exactly what happened. I saw the mystery, the paradox and the confusion of growing life in an arid land. It humbled me.

Yet, I also learned that spontaneity has to exist within structure. Mystery happens within the concrete. I learned that I had to weed out stuff that I didn't want and I had to be diligent about watering. I learned that growth is often mundane and typical and ritualistic.

I still believe that the best teacher asked us to "consider the lillies" and while the particular quotation is about trust, I am seeing that trust often comes with a certain level of structure. As often as I write about the messy mystery of teaching, I want to point out that both gardening and teaching require planning. The following is a plan I set up for myself a few years back. I went back to it today and realized that I've added things that don't fit into this plan. A part of me wonders if I'm letting the weeds choke out the plants.

Instruction

· I will develop quality lessons that fit my set criteria (cooperative learning, higher order thinking, metacognition, linking to prior learning, student options, multiple intelligences, etc. – see checklist on the lesson plan format)

· I will develop an intervention and enrichment for all lessons I create

· I will analyze each lesson for further improvement in the form of a paragraph-long reflection on each lesson plan

· I will develop and gather my own resources rather than use the mandated curriculum (though I will use that whenever it works best)

· In the summer, I will commit to learning at least five new teaching strategies that I can implement in my classroom

Assessment

· I will create my own projects with rubrics

· I will post at least one comment on each blog post that students create

· I will walk around and actively monitor learning

· I will do one conference per class period to go over student progress

Extracurricular / Authentic Learning Outside the Classroom

· A monthly service project

· Quarterly social-oriented art project (such as a mural)

· A monthly art-oriented service project

· Two documentaries per year

· The Social Voice website – at least one blog post per day

Classroom Leadership

· I will avoid writing referrals unless absolutely necessary (less than five a year)

· I will apologize when I am in the wrong

· I will keep directions short and concise to help ensure students are not acting out because of confusion

· I will focus on motivation rather than behavior and learning rather than achievement

· When I find myself resenting kids, I will pray for them

phPhoto Credit

my day in black and white

Anonymous — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 03:30:00 GMT

When I was in high school, I tried to argue my way out of an F on a test. It was a real lame attempt, based mostly on the fact that a failing test would mean I'd miss a cross-country meet (to most kids, running was a punishment).

Me: Does math have to be binary? Does every question have to have a right answer? To me, this word problem could work a few different ways based upon interpretation.
Mrs. D: There's either a right answer or there's not.
Me: Or there's both.
Mrs. D: See, that's why you and I are different. I see the world in black and white.
Me: I do, too. But black is the absence of all color if you look at it as light. If it's pigment, it's every color combined. So is white. So black and white are both non-colors and all-colors co-existing at the same time. That's a paradox I can't wrap my brain around.

***

I believe in absolute truth. It's an offensive idea to many of my trendy hipsterish friends, who like to "send positive energy" my way instead of saying a prayer. I believe in mystery and paradox and relativism and sometimes that makes my church friends just as nervous, fearing that I'll someday transform Jesus into a pot-smoking Hippie.

I don't buy into left-brain and right-brain theory. I think everyone is capable of using their entire brain and that, when push comes to shove, we're a whole lot more motivated by the amygdala than we believe.

People warn me not to trust my emotions; that they are a fleeting vapor. So are thoughts. Consciousness is a stream. But witnessing a kid getting bullied will always *** me off and a certain acoustic Eric Clapton song will always remind me of the first time I danced with Christy. Most of all there are a few convictions that I won't abandon. The mind is fluid and permanent, linear and disjointed.

A sage of the past said, "The heart is deceitful above all things and without cure. Who can understand it?"

***

This week my students will take a drill-and-kill test to prove what they don't know. I will walk around pretending to proctor while my mind thinks about plot lines of imaginary graphic novels I'll never draw. The only reason I won't cheat and grade papers is that I care about my administration and think they are great people.

Multiple choice cannot measure knowledge (merely lack of applied knowledge in a standardized format) much less wisdom. Still, the results will be sixty percent of their final grade in most subjects. Most special ed students will fail and it won't be the fault of the students or the teachers. Point this out, though, and the elusive "they" will accuse you of low expectations.

It seems to me that, if the mind is a mystery then maybe we should be a little more humble in how we approach assessment. I say "we" because I often end a grading period with a lingering sense that I have let students down; that I didn't get to know them well enough or offer enough feedback or spur them toward deeper thinking. If I'm not careful, I'll get as bad as the Galileo people in wanting something measurable. Maybe that sage is right. "Who can understand it?"

***

Students will walk into my computer class and I'll try and engage them in a dialogue about technology and how it is reshaping their world. I'll fight a battle against online games and Facebook status updates and Playlist.com. I'll try and convince them that a book might have as much to speak into their lives - and then they will blog about it.

Sometimes I get tired of technocratic futurism and grand predictions of "a new pedagogy." Yes, computers are cool, but so is Socrates. I want my students to be mindful of the past and interested in the future and present in the now. I want them to engage in the mystery. Perhaps that is too much to ask of a twelve year old. I'm twenty-nine and still haven't figured it out.

I will encourage my class to criticize that which they use and use that which they criticize and when that feels to schizophrenic, I want them to laugh at a fart joke or a funny accent. Laughter is just as human as abstract conversation. I will try and convince them that the computer world of binary reality is as pretend as The Matrix and the act we put on is as poor a performance as Keanu Reeves.

It's black and white.

photo credit

story

Anonymous — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 12:34:00 GMT

you can't teach me if you don't know me

I have my students for nine weeks at a time. It takes two weeks to learn the names. I speed-read each story and throw myself in for a moment. I'm a minor character, playing the role of the firm but fair often casual, somewhat demanding computer teacher who confuses kids by being so critical of the subject I teach. Sometimes we criticize the technology we use. Sometimes we use the technology we criticize. The former makes me feel subversive. The latter makes me feel like a phony.

My job is fun and easy and fairly stress-free. I should probably keep it, coast by for awhile and retire in twenty years. My guess is that I'll still be having fun.

So, why is it that I long for self-contained? Why is it that, when I picture myself in a classroom, I don't see me giving step-by-step instructions on how to create a podcast? Instead, I see myself teaching math and science and social studies and reading and writing and all the while, interacting and engaging with the same group of thirty students.

Poetry is short and powerful. It jars people into thinking deeper about life. Kids need poems in relationships. They need a person who is there for a week or a month or a quarter and pushes them to re-examine their beliefs. Narrative is slower, more meandering, but just as powerful. We need stories to make sense out of our place in this world.

I am realizing that I am more of a story-guy than a poem-guy. I thrive on long-term relationships. I need dialogue and character development and plot. I'm not as careful in my language as a poet. I want to create a climate, a setting, where students feel safe and yet feel challenged by high expectations, not for the sake of high expectations, but to think well about life.

Right now, I'm not a great poet. I'm not even a great short story writer. My class is an excerpt from a novel and it feels incomplete. Last year, I made the decision to move down to a lower grade and then with the hustle and bustle of RIF madness, I snatched up a computer slot. At some point, though, I might move down to fifth or sixth grade and throw myself into the narrative.

photo credit