When the hurly-burly’s done

There are so many demands on my time these days.  Those of you who are raising small children, working two (or more) jobs, building your own houses with your own bare hands, &c., might want to read a less blithe post.  But I have the luxury of time–in fact, I have demanded of and created for myself the luxury of time–to do what, to me, counts.

So here’s what I do on days when I’m not sick and am not scheduled to be in multiple places simultaneously.  These are things that are important to me, and things which I consider crucial to my continued ability to teach in a large, highly affluent public high school without climbing a bell tower.

I engage with the world physically.   I never was a jock, but I love doing certain sports–softball, dodgeball, biking, hiking, long walks, the occasional run.  I’m not fast, and I’m definitely out of shape, and I could be a little stronger.  But I’m also content to be the guy who just enjoys getting outside and playing when it’s nice out.  On a clearish, warmish day, if I’m inside, I feel like I’m insulting the world.

There is music.   As much as the Moment of Silence is my favorite part of the day, I find it hard to go for more than a few minutes without some sort of music.  Ideally, I’m either listening to something great (which, recently, means jazz–Herbie Hancock, Miles Davis, Dave Douglas, John Coltrane) or at a band practice.  But it could be as simple as lightly tapping a drumbeat on some nearby surface.  It probably drives my students and officemates insane, but that’s the way it is.

I read.   This is something I’ve been thinking about recently.  I read a blog post somewhere, I forgot where, saying that we as teachers should get rid of all of our “edublog” links and replace them with links to sites that are about other things, whatever we’re passionate about.  And I think that’s a pretty good idea.  If you look at my blogroll, you’ll notice that most of my edublog links are gone, and that I’ve put up some links to things that I just think are interesting.

The sophomores are reading all sorts of books right now, trying to get at some basic questions about reading and how we interact with texts.  How does this text confirm or challenge my beliefs about how the world works?  Why do we choose particular books?  What links can we make between texts?  I’ve had a lot of fun, and a lot of frustration, examining my own recent reading through that lens.  In the process, I’ve discovered Bruce Schauble’s excellent blog, Throughlines.  I don’t know if Bruce has a fan club, but I’d like in–his writing is reflective, thought-provoking, and occasionally startling.   Check out his recent posts about walking around taking photographs in his neighborhood and talking to his students about ways of approaching a text about which they aren’t terribly excited.  Bruce’s blog is a model of what I’d like mine to be–it’s about teaching, yes, but in some non-standard ways.  He seems to be a teacher who inspires through example–he’s a real person who freely admits that he struggles with some aspects of the job, but he also isn’t afraid to share things that aren’t necessarily “relevant” in the traditional sense.  I’m keeping his link.

I started this post a few days ago and decided to let it marinate, as I wasn’t happy with my writing. I’m still not, but I can live with it for now. I write this intro bit only because some of the days are off. Can you live with that? Good.
First: if this were Christmas vacation, I’d be heading, right now, to school to meet the crew for the Habitat excursion to Mexico. I’d be beside myself with nervousness about bringing high school students to a foreign country. I’d be wondering if I’d packed enough, or too much. It’d be before I got my above-the-eye nastiness. A lot’s changed since then.

Thankfully, this is a break in which the most stressful thing so far has been spending a great and relaxing weekend in Boston with my sisters and some friends. We wandered around, caught up on what’s been going on in our lives, read the paper over coffee, and just had a weekend. Sometimes you need that.

I finished reading Graham Greene’s The Quiet American over the weekend as well. I remembered watching the movie, but not very much about what it was about–it was all a blur to me, a blur of beautifully-shot nighttime scenes of Saigon in the 50s, back in the French colonial days, and Michael Caine being Michael Caine. The film was visually stunning and rekindled, when I saw it, my desire to travel in SE Asia. Movies, books, and music have a tendency to do that to me, to make me want to go somewhere new. It was a heady cocktail of Sigur Rós (“Popplagið“) and The Girl in the Cafe that reobsessed me with Iceland.

The book, on the other hand, made me think a lot about my writing. For the past few years I’ve had, at the back of my mind, a nascent novel that would somehow combine my ideas about memory (and its loss due to Alzheimer’s), the Holocaust, and the kind of modern ennui that I was so good at a few years ago. The problem is, though, that writing the book has become a colossal exercise in frustration. What I liked so much about reading Greene’s book, I think, was its simplicity. There are really only three characters and one central problem: Pyle, an American agent whose murder drives the flashbacks in the books, is in love with Phuong, the Vietnamese girlfriend of the British journalist (and the book’s narrator) Fowler. That’s it. And from that simple premise (a love trial superimposed on a murder investigation and some shady colonialist counterinsurgency stuff), a masterpiece.

On Thursday, I saw Notes on a Scandal. Again, another simple premise resulting in a very moving story. Cate Blanchett plays a young art teacher who begins a love affair with one of her high school students. Judi Dench is the veteran spinster teacher who earns Blanchett’s character’s trust, then uses it to manipulate her. That’s pretty much it. It helps that Blanchett and Dench are two of the best actresses in the business, maybe even in the history of the business (is that hyperbole? probably not), but the story was so compelling in its simplicity that the time flew by. I had no idea how long the movie was. It felt like about 30 minutes, but it probably was more.

So what’s left? Going to see Macbeth tonight. Got a couple of rehearsals tomorrow (did you know that I play bass for both an Irish punk band and a neo-soul band?). Then it’s back to work on Monday. I’ll be spending this afternoon getting my act together for this upcoming week. And that’s it.

BLOCK 3

The Killer Angels:  Branden, Brayden, Matt

Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood: Ali, Anna

The Jungle: David, Anthony, Juan

Black Boy:  Patty, Mel

The Things They Carried: The Ryans

Silent Spring:  Joe, Jeff

The Secret Life of Bees: Rachelle, Cindy, Emily, Ali

Frankenstein:  Lauren, Sarah, Norma

The Plot Against America: Mark, Basel, Mason

BLOCK 4

A Separate Peace:  Patrick, Matt

Snow Falling on Cedars: JJ, Lucy, Noel

Honky:  Dan, Scott, Alex

In the Name of the Father:  Captain, Ass’t Captain, Eliza, Emily, Megan

The Remains of the Day:  Michael, Reggy

Ordinary People: Kristina, Nicki, Lauren

Midnight’s Children:  Brian, Malachai, Alec, Sam

The Bell Jar:  Anna, Lexi, Lizzy, Heather, Sarah, Kristen 

So Eric wrote a post about bringing more realistic context, and therefore relevence, to the classroom. You should read the whole thing–it raises some very important questions that need to be addressed. I’ve got some thoughts on it, and I’d write them in a comment on his site, but I’m afraid that it’d be too long. Not sure of the protocol involved, but as there’s been a lot of chatter around these parts recently about the importance of not being a jerk on the internet, I figure I’ll play it safe.

Anyway.

Learning only happens for two reasons outside the artificial construct of school: 1) because the person has a natural inclination to and interest in the topic, or 2) because it’s necessary for achieving a desired goal. In both cases, personal satisfaction or survival is the motivation. Why do we expect things to be different in school?

You could make the argument that we need to teach students things that they aren’t necessarily interested in. For me, that would’ve been algebra. Beyond learning that the word is Arabic, I really had no interest in the subject. I didn’t care about x. I wasn’t interested in reducing variables or solving equations or anything like that. But I guess I needed to learn algebra, since it helped me do well enough on the SAT to get my no-homework-doing self into a good college. But then again, with this whole “School 2.0″ (gag me) thing, maybe people will finally realize that the SAT is a farce.

I digress. About a week has passed since I started this post–I couldn’t figure out what I really wanted to write about, but I knew Eric’s post was too monumentally important not to address. I’m still trying to figure it out, but I think here it is:

I’m not impressed/enamored with technology for technology’s sake, but I’m pretty sure that the technology can be used, in very powerful ways, to make school more relevant/effective for our students. Eric describes a dream situation: a student whose interests are focused into a learning program/quest, in which he plays the role of the Dungeon Master (those of you who weren’t deeply geeky in the 80s and early 90s won’t get this reference, but trust me on this). His student pursues opportunities outside the traditional classroom, and Eric facilitates. There is, of course, an online component, using very basic (yet powerful) Web 2.0 technology:

While all of this is happening, April’s writing on her personal blog, reading a selection of Gothic/Romantic novels for which she researches prominent fashions of the time, presenting her findings through presentations and videos, and developing her e-portfolio that demonstrates her growth in reading, writing, and communicating.

If school worked like this, I imagine we’d all be much happier–even/especially Dan and TMAO, because it’s my firm belief that interested students solving real-world problems in their disciplines will do better on any sort of realistic state exam/NCLB barrage. If school worked like this there’d be less grumbling by teachers about outdated curricula, less whining by students about why they have to learn this, and less suspicion by parents of what we do in the classrooms. It’d be transparent–you’re learning this so you can pursue your own interests effectively. Eric’s point about using the students’ interests as vehicles for skills-based learning is a great one–as a teacher, I could help my students read and write to their interests while showing them specific techniques to help them become better readers and writers.

As much as I hate to admit it–I’d love to be all rah-rah ed-tech School 2.0 guy– I’m still a skeptic. It’s a terrible feeling not to be wholly committed to something.

This started with two almost simultaneous conversations. First, Clay Burrell invited my students and I to participate in the 1001 Flat World Tales project. This seems like a very interesting activity, not to mention a great way to get kids from all over the world working together, but I’m having trouble getting as excited for it as I feel like I should. I’m concerned about forcing the technology thing too much, I guess.

Which brings me to the second conversation. One of my sophomores came to see me about her second quarter grade, which was pretty low. She couldn’t figure out why it was so low, so I explained to her that she was missing many blog entries, which I require as homework. Now, a couple of things happened right after I said that: She said that not only were there technical difficulties with learnerblogs, but that she and many of my other sophomores think that blogging is useless and “pretentious.” At the same time, I realized how counterproductive it was to force my students to blog on a schedule. I was grading them on their participation in something that I find valuable in my own learning (blogging) but in a way that doesn’t even work for me (posting by a deadline, rather than as I come up with things to write about). Long story short, I adjusted her grade but also made it clear that we’d continue to use the blogs for the rest of the year, albeit in a more productive/logical/useful way, TBD later.

So now I’m in a very awkward place (and believe me, I know from awkward). How do I integrate what I see as very cool connectivity tools (blogs, wikis, del.icio.us, etc) into my English classroom without being too pushy about it? If I force my students to use these things, then I run the risk of these tools becoming nothing more than fancy worksheets–routine, boring activities that we do when Mr. Wasserman can’t think of a better lesson plan. I’m trying to show my students how Web 2.0 technology can help them become better readers and writers, yes, but I’m also assuming that they all like the online thing (because, I guess, it’s like paper but shinier) as much as I do. Who knows–some might. Some definitely don’t. Many’s the time I’ve heard “I hate blogs” in those “how come my grade’s low?” conversations (and not just the one I wrote about above). I’ve stopped being offended and am now just paralyzed. I don’t know what to do next.

Maybe the blogs need to be less academically focused? Maybe the student blogs need to be pushed to become more like the blogs I find myself reading–the ones with voice, the ones that are focused on the blogger’s interests. Maybe it’s okay, even more than okay, to have students just write about what they think is important–I’d be a hypocrite if I got mad a student who wrote about her favorite album like I did a little while ago.

I wonder–and this is the invitation for my sophomores to respond–if I need to just bury the whole blog-as-reading-journal model once and for all. Enough with the “post before and after you read” nonsense. Enough with the “comment on someone else’s blog for credit” malarkey. Enough with making the blogs as fake as the five-paragraph essay and as seemingly pointless as a quadratic equation. In my enthusiasm for the new technology, I’m afraid I’ve run roughshod over one of my basic beliefs about education–it has to be authentic to be important.

The second semester of English 213 (sorry, 223) is going to focus on a couple of essential questions:

• What is the purpose of having an English class? What should we, as learners, have and do in order to be better at reading, writing, and communicating?
• How do texts challenge or confirm our individual beliefs about how the world works?

These questions are authentic, but I’ve been ignoring them. They will require me to both let go of my control-freak instinct and maintain a tighter focus on what my students and I are learning. No more, hopefully, doing something just for the sake of doing it. No more, hopefully, desperation lessons (you teachers out there know the feeling–class is about to start, you have nothing prepared, so you run your mouth, hoping that they don’t notice how scared you are, but you know they notice).

This is not a promise that everything will be bright and new and wonderful. It’s more of a pledge that I will continue to question what I do and what I bring to the classroom, and an invitation for my students to do the same thing–not just to question me, but to question themselves. As in, “What do I need to know in order to understand this text?” As in, “What are the issues and conflicts around this topic, and where do I stand on them?” As in, “Did this text change my stance on this topic?” As in, “What kinds of texts can I produce to make my mark on the world of thought?”

So yeah, we’ll keep blogging. We’ll use RSS and del.icio.us. We’ll read books and watch films and write on paper and on screens, and we’ll make films and have discussions and teach each other. But we’ll do each of these things with one purpose in mind–to examine different pieces of literature (or, if you’d like, the record of human thoughts) and try to figure out how they relate to us. We’ll question why we do things–and hopefully not why we “have to learn this.”

I really don’t know what this is going to look like. It probably won’t be a classroom studio in the way that some have envisioned it. In fact, it might be a horrible mess. I don’t know if my students have ever learned like this, through introspection and metacognition. I know I’ve never “taught” like this. I hope only that by the end I have a better idea of what I’m supposed to be doing in the classroom, and that my students have a better idea of what it is to read, write, and think in an authentic fashion. It sounds selfish, I know, but I really think that this is the first step toward making high school important to the people who really matter.

I’ve been tagged for my first blog meme–Eric wants me to write about the physical space in which I work. I can do that, I think.

I was going to bring my camera today to take pictures of the room, but that struck me as unnecessary. Description should do the trick.

I teach in two rooms. Room 109 is where four of my five classes meet. It’s got one small exterior window that doesn’t open. None of our windows open, because someone years ago decided that our HVAC system would be sufficient for air circulation. I call this window the Arrow Loop, but only in my head. It overlooks a steep hill down to the road, but between the window and the road are usually dozens of America’s Future smoking cigarettes.

Anyway. There are 30 of those desk/chair combos arranged in a double-layer horseshoe facing a chalkboard. They used to face the whiteboard, which is on the adjacent wall, but Gary and I reoriented the room so that we could more easily use the screen that hangs above the chalkboard. There’s a teacher’s desk with a computer that is poorly placed for student OR teacher access, but it’s where the Ethernet jack is, so there it is. We have a huge bookcase filled with books and trinkets, including a smelly apple-shaped candle and a papier-mache parrot that says “Ecuador” on it.

The walls are covered with student work, including posters leftover the from the satire project, visual representatins of outsiders and rebels, and the Nine Circles of Hell, circa 2006-2007. In addition, a large poster of John Coltrane looms over the teacher’s desk.

I’d love to rearrange and refurnish the room. The horseshoe is the best arrangement I could come up with, but it seems to induce too much separation. I sit in the front and center, but at times I get up and walk over to the side of the room to let the students talk without feeling like they’re only talking to/for me.

Meanwhile, Room 120 is a Social Studies room. My 12 Essay Writing students and myself take up very little room, don’t disturb the desks (in rows–egads, the rows, the rows), and don’t feel at home.

I guess I’m supposed to pass this along to some others…so, let’s see–how about Evan, Kim, and Dave (all of whom I work with, so I hope they count…), and, just for fun, Dan and Sarah.