The principal pulls me aside and says, "Hey Techno-Tommy, we have this new aid who will be going to your class. He's an excellent resource. His name is Ed Helper. Nice guy. You'll enjoy working with him."
He's nice and he's pleasant and I don't doubt that he makes my job easier. For a half an hour, he passes out various worksheets (emphasis on the word "work" rather than "learn"). The students do not particularly like him, despite his little school bus badge he wears and his generally happy demeanor. He's nice, perhaps too nice. A man of many cardigans. A decent chap who I wouldn't mind meeting at a cocktail party.
I just don't think the kids are learning from his intervention. Sure, they read a worksheet and yes, they use a pencil. But it's not real. It's not relevant. It's not provocative and thus, it's not thought-provoking. It's imitation meat, like calling SPAM a steak (and while canned meat is all the rage in this early industrial era, I have a hunch we'll someday use it as a pejorative term for unwanted information).
And the biggest reason is that Ed Helper doesn't know my students as well as I do. Ultimately, that's what it's about. Teaching is a relational gig and as long as people outsource it to guys like Ed, the students will suffer.
Showing posts with label principal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label principal. Show all posts
why creating a school site was a disaster
I'm not a detail person. I mmispell works frequently and often my speller check won't pick it up. I don't notice when my shoe is untied. I forget to brush my horse. My wife has been known to write "Wash Me" onto the coat of dirt of the poor mare. I'm sure she has a complex by now.
So, I was the wrong person chosen to design a site for the school. It began fairly innocuous. My principal pulled me aside and said, "Techno-Tommy, I have a great opportunity for you."
Internally, I cringe when he uses the term "opportunity," when in fact, I can never turn it down. The correct term is "coercion."
"I need you to build our school a site."
"Build it? I'm not exactly a construction worker. I'm afraid I'm a bit of a fop."
"Nonsense, Techno-Tommy. You're a creative man. I've seen the way you sketch and paint. There's a whole program set up for you. All you need to do is design it. You can set up one of those fancy plogs you talk about and design it like a visitor center."
So, I begin the process and enjoy it. I invite students to help take pictures and write sections of the site. I use various paper colors to design the layout. When it is done, I invite people to come tour our visitors site.
"You'll love it. It's like there is a whole web of information all in one site. I call it a website. It has our calendar and our contact information and bulletin boards with updates from sports and, well, just come out and see it."
Five people visited the site and only one had anything positive to say. I received notes of "constructive feedback" asking me to add more pictures or switch to stock photography because apparently having pictures that look like all other sites is quintessential for looking "professional." Two teachers informed me that their subject didn't have enough information. They pointed out any place where a line of text wasn't centered or any dates missing from the calendar. I knew it wasn't personal, but it hurt.
A few teachers pulled me aside, "Why did you use holiday break instead of Christmas Break? Are you trying to take the Christ out of Christmas?"
"I assure you that it was only to include our students of other faiths. I'm a big fan of Jesus, really I am."
"What about Columbus Day?"
"I didn't include it, because we don't get the day off from school. Besides, stealing land, committing genocide and then claiming it in the name of God and country is nothing to celebrate."
What's hard is that I can't imagine the same feedback in other areas. When the band performs, do people feel the need to tell the band director what colors the students should wear and what songs they should select? When the baseball team plays, do the staff members send letters to the manager explaining what position each player should play or a note to the custodian about how low the grass should be cut?
To make matters worse, the site is hosted at the district office and I no longer have a key to our supply cabinet. Thus, I can't update the site as often as I had hoped. The process has turned out to be a bit of a disaster.
I tell Mr. Brown that it's a mudslide and he informs me that it's an avalanche. A Mudslide is a drink ordered by pansies who are afraid to have a pint but are also too coward to admit they want a milkshake.
Mr. Brown explains it to me, "They chose you because you're a pencil geek and you know technology. But know one looked at the human side of the job. If I had done this, I would have created a staff survey, interviewed staff members individually and made each person feel like it was their site. I'd smile and pretend to listen to their feedback and then end up doing it my way. But Tommy, we both know that's not you. Ultimately, you're an introvert and those in leadership never considered the issue of personality when choosing you for the job."
So, I was the wrong person chosen to design a site for the school. It began fairly innocuous. My principal pulled me aside and said, "Techno-Tommy, I have a great opportunity for you."
Internally, I cringe when he uses the term "opportunity," when in fact, I can never turn it down. The correct term is "coercion."
"I need you to build our school a site."
"Build it? I'm not exactly a construction worker. I'm afraid I'm a bit of a fop."
"Nonsense, Techno-Tommy. You're a creative man. I've seen the way you sketch and paint. There's a whole program set up for you. All you need to do is design it. You can set up one of those fancy plogs you talk about and design it like a visitor center."
So, I begin the process and enjoy it. I invite students to help take pictures and write sections of the site. I use various paper colors to design the layout. When it is done, I invite people to come tour our visitors site.
"You'll love it. It's like there is a whole web of information all in one site. I call it a website. It has our calendar and our contact information and bulletin boards with updates from sports and, well, just come out and see it."
Five people visited the site and only one had anything positive to say. I received notes of "constructive feedback" asking me to add more pictures or switch to stock photography because apparently having pictures that look like all other sites is quintessential for looking "professional." Two teachers informed me that their subject didn't have enough information. They pointed out any place where a line of text wasn't centered or any dates missing from the calendar. I knew it wasn't personal, but it hurt.
A few teachers pulled me aside, "Why did you use holiday break instead of Christmas Break? Are you trying to take the Christ out of Christmas?"
"I assure you that it was only to include our students of other faiths. I'm a big fan of Jesus, really I am."
"What about Columbus Day?"
"I didn't include it, because we don't get the day off from school. Besides, stealing land, committing genocide and then claiming it in the name of God and country is nothing to celebrate."
***
What's hard is that I can't imagine the same feedback in other areas. When the band performs, do people feel the need to tell the band director what colors the students should wear and what songs they should select? When the baseball team plays, do the staff members send letters to the manager explaining what position each player should play or a note to the custodian about how low the grass should be cut?
To make matters worse, the site is hosted at the district office and I no longer have a key to our supply cabinet. Thus, I can't update the site as often as I had hoped. The process has turned out to be a bit of a disaster.
I tell Mr. Brown that it's a mudslide and he informs me that it's an avalanche. A Mudslide is a drink ordered by pansies who are afraid to have a pint but are also too coward to admit they want a milkshake.
Mr. Brown explains it to me, "They chose you because you're a pencil geek and you know technology. But know one looked at the human side of the job. If I had done this, I would have created a staff survey, interviewed staff members individually and made each person feel like it was their site. I'd smile and pretend to listen to their feedback and then end up doing it my way. But Tommy, we both know that's not you. Ultimately, you're an introvert and those in leadership never considered the issue of personality when choosing you for the job."
a follow-up with Mrs. Jackson
The principal pulls me aside and tells me ahead of time, "Tom, I'm not a counselor. I'm not a psychologist. I'm not even a phrenologist, so you won't see me trying analyze the bumps on your head to see what you were thinking."
"Okay, so what's the matter?"
"I want you to know that Mrs. Jackson is in my office right now. I didn't want you to feel like it was a trap when you walked in."
The meeting begins rough, with Mrs. Jackson yelling at me, pointing her finger at my face and telling me that I was being unprofessional.
"Kicking a student out for a name on a paper is also unprofessional," I explain. I have the amazing ability to use words as weapons and I can tell this stings. She responds with silence, not because she is angry, but because she is hurt.
"You have to understand that we can't coddle kids. They have to know that in the real world they'll need to learn to get along and respect authority and remember details. What boss would possibly . . ."
Finally our principal speaks up. "You just said that in the real world kids will need to learn to get along and yet I'm having to hold a mediation in my office right now. I find it strange that both of you attend the same church and yet neither of you has internalized the message of humility and forgiveness. I'm not a religious man myself, but I can certainly see value in a Jesus-flavored approach."
I look at her as we both cringe at the term "Jesus-flavored," as if our Savior has been relegated to a lollipop.
"As I see it, you're both right. Mr. Johnson, you have every right to suggest that a child will be forgetful and that shame simply brings out anger and rebellion. Mrs. Jackson, you're right that children need consequences and it is our job to prepare them for the reality of a world that doesn't look like a bunch of cuddly bunnies and 'great job' stickers."
It's silent again, but this time out of a shared sense of remorse. I offer an awkward, clunky apology. Ms. Jackson holds out her arm for one of those camp-counselor-side-hugs.
Later that day, she says to me, "I guess I get nervous and uncomfortable with paper and pencil. My rules change. I get uptight. That kid I timed out wasn't a bad kid by any means. I just feel like I'm wandering in a maze right now and everything that seemed normal five years ago is no longer enough."
Mrs. Jackson is a phenomenal teacher and yet her veteran status often works against her. People see the pencils and papers in my class and call me "innovative" and "forward thinking," and they pull her aside for condescending discussions about the need to move into the twentieth century. The reason she was acting out of character had less to do with student behavior and more to do with her own discomfort.
"Okay, so what's the matter?"
"I want you to know that Mrs. Jackson is in my office right now. I didn't want you to feel like it was a trap when you walked in."
The meeting begins rough, with Mrs. Jackson yelling at me, pointing her finger at my face and telling me that I was being unprofessional.
"Kicking a student out for a name on a paper is also unprofessional," I explain. I have the amazing ability to use words as weapons and I can tell this stings. She responds with silence, not because she is angry, but because she is hurt.
"You have to understand that we can't coddle kids. They have to know that in the real world they'll need to learn to get along and respect authority and remember details. What boss would possibly . . ."
Finally our principal speaks up. "You just said that in the real world kids will need to learn to get along and yet I'm having to hold a mediation in my office right now. I find it strange that both of you attend the same church and yet neither of you has internalized the message of humility and forgiveness. I'm not a religious man myself, but I can certainly see value in a Jesus-flavored approach."
I look at her as we both cringe at the term "Jesus-flavored," as if our Savior has been relegated to a lollipop.
"As I see it, you're both right. Mr. Johnson, you have every right to suggest that a child will be forgetful and that shame simply brings out anger and rebellion. Mrs. Jackson, you're right that children need consequences and it is our job to prepare them for the reality of a world that doesn't look like a bunch of cuddly bunnies and 'great job' stickers."
It's silent again, but this time out of a shared sense of remorse. I offer an awkward, clunky apology. Ms. Jackson holds out her arm for one of those camp-counselor-side-hugs.
***
Later that day, she says to me, "I guess I get nervous and uncomfortable with paper and pencil. My rules change. I get uptight. That kid I timed out wasn't a bad kid by any means. I just feel like I'm wandering in a maze right now and everything that seemed normal five years ago is no longer enough."
Mrs. Jackson is a phenomenal teacher and yet her veteran status often works against her. People see the pencils and papers in my class and call me "innovative" and "forward thinking," and they pull her aside for condescending discussions about the need to move into the twentieth century. The reason she was acting out of character had less to do with student behavior and more to do with her own discomfort.
Here's the rub: Pencils geeks need her. So, she gets a little nervous around a pencil sharpener. Perhaps she grows uptight when kids forget names on papers. However, she is not easily wooed by a shiny gadgetry. Instead, she is impressed by learning and hence she has a contagious love of literature that her children seem to catch.
What if we changed pencil-integrated professional development so that she became one of the experts? What if, instead of sending her to a pencil workshop, we used job-embedded training that allowed her to use her expertise on pedagogy coupled with another teacher's expertise in pencil-based strategies? what if we redefined "innovation" to be less about technology and more about what works in a system that is broken (even if what works looks, on the surface, to be pretty low-tech)?
field trip update
The principal pulls me aside and says, "So, your request to go to the university has been approved. It looks like you'll be able to go on a field trip after all, Techno-Tommy."
"What happened?"
"Well, the district decided that the solution is not so much an issue of all sites being bad, but rather some of them needing to be restricted. So, they outsourced it to a company called SiteSense. It searches out keywords and prevents teachers from allowing kids to wander to dangerous sites."
After investigating the SiteSense program, I'm a little skeptical. I mailed out five searches and each were denied. Apparently we can't visit with a lawyer, because of the use of the word "bar" in American Bar Association. We can't listen to any music. We cannot be present where anyone might access a Pen Pal network.
A student of mine decided to write a letter to the district:
To Whom It May Concern:
I am a sixth grader who is concerned about your current field trip policy. You are scared that I might use a Pen Pal network incorrectly. However, instead of teaching me boundaries, you cut me off from any letters entirely. You are worried about me listening to ragtime so you cut off music (and thus a major aspect of education) completely.
Can I go to a hospital and interview a doctor about breast cancer? Nope, SiteSense says that any field trip that includes the word "breast" is banned. Can I go to the botanical garden for botany research? Apparently, merely hearing the word pussy willow will turn me into a binge-drinking, amoral hedonist.
What if we tried this instead? Teachers could use their own judgment and monitor field trips. If a student wastes time passing a note on a Pen Pal network, perhaps the field trip wasn't as valuable of a learning experience as one had assumed. If a child wanders over to a baseball game instead of going to the museum, perhaps the child individually needs to be reprimanded.
We are a nation built on the notion of civil liberties. Your district vision includes "model citizens" and "lifelong learning." Why not treat field trips as a chance to model critical thinking and citizenship? Instead of punishing everyone, what if you trust us to navigate field trips with the guidance of our teacher instead of a SiteSense that rarely makes any sense at all.
Sincerely:
Sarah
"What happened?"
"Well, the district decided that the solution is not so much an issue of all sites being bad, but rather some of them needing to be restricted. So, they outsourced it to a company called SiteSense. It searches out keywords and prevents teachers from allowing kids to wander to dangerous sites."
After investigating the SiteSense program, I'm a little skeptical. I mailed out five searches and each were denied. Apparently we can't visit with a lawyer, because of the use of the word "bar" in American Bar Association. We can't listen to any music. We cannot be present where anyone might access a Pen Pal network.
A student of mine decided to write a letter to the district:
To Whom It May Concern:
I am a sixth grader who is concerned about your current field trip policy. You are scared that I might use a Pen Pal network incorrectly. However, instead of teaching me boundaries, you cut me off from any letters entirely. You are worried about me listening to ragtime so you cut off music (and thus a major aspect of education) completely.
Can I go to a hospital and interview a doctor about breast cancer? Nope, SiteSense says that any field trip that includes the word "breast" is banned. Can I go to the botanical garden for botany research? Apparently, merely hearing the word pussy willow will turn me into a binge-drinking, amoral hedonist.
What if we tried this instead? Teachers could use their own judgment and monitor field trips. If a student wastes time passing a note on a Pen Pal network, perhaps the field trip wasn't as valuable of a learning experience as one had assumed. If a child wanders over to a baseball game instead of going to the museum, perhaps the child individually needs to be reprimanded.
We are a nation built on the notion of civil liberties. Your district vision includes "model citizens" and "lifelong learning." Why not treat field trips as a chance to model critical thinking and citizenship? Instead of punishing everyone, what if you trust us to navigate field trips with the guidance of our teacher instead of a SiteSense that rarely makes any sense at all.
Sincerely:
Sarah
Pencil Island - Part Two
My principal pulls me aside on Tuesday afternoon. "Techno-Tommy, we need to talk." I appreciate the subtle warning. Any time the word "need" is used, it means I'm in trouble. Oddly enough, on really difficult days, when I feel the crushing blow of a broken world, I sometimes "need to talk" but I keep it to myself. It might seem that a principal feels the same way, as if "we need to talk" could be a way of saying, "Tom, leadership is painful and lonely and I just need someone to tell me I'm doing okay." But alas, "need to talk" is a code word for, "need to shame you in a subtle way."
"Tom, I don't like the way you talked to the consultant from Pencil Island," he says squinting through his dated monocle.
"The man's a snake oil salesman, not a consultant." I explain.
"Look, I know you don't trust businessmen, but this isn't time to pull a Coxey's Army stunt. Not all business is bad. I don't mind if you're a Populist, but education is a business and we need to recognize it as such."
"It's not a business and I'm not an executive. This is called public education for a reason. I serve, because I care about my students. I am a civil servant representing my community and I don't think my community wants to sell a child's mind to a wolf in professional clothing."
"All curriculum costs money."
"That's not the issue. Yes, books cost money. But this man has a whole system set up designed to teach rote skills and make him a fortune."
"Pencil Island is amazing, Tom. Information is broken down into consumable parts for children."
"Consumable. That's the problem. Children should be thinking, not consuming."
"This is the Age of Industry. We need to prepare future factory workers. Back when we had farmers, well, it made sense to teach holistically. But we can't. We need compliant workers. We're pulling out of an economic panic and we have to educate our way into becoming an industrial nation."
"If that's the case, why bother with school? I hear most factories will hire kids as young as five or six. We won't even need to turn the school into a factory. I think Rockefeller could hook them up with a job. Might as well start them early when their hands are nimble."
"Do you suggest that we give them an archaic education? Set them up to be liberal arts majors. How many jobs these days are asking for philosophy majors?"
"No, the challenge we face is giving kids a classic, holistic education within the context of our industrial age. Setting kids down in isolation to fill out worksheet packets seems like a step in the wrong direction."
I leave the meeting wanting to slam a door, but the principal has taken the door off the hinge in an effort to create an open atmosphere. So, I end up storming off in anger and then I feel horrible about getting so passionate about something I can't control.
"Tom, I don't like the way you talked to the consultant from Pencil Island," he says squinting through his dated monocle.
"The man's a snake oil salesman, not a consultant." I explain.
"Look, I know you don't trust businessmen, but this isn't time to pull a Coxey's Army stunt. Not all business is bad. I don't mind if you're a Populist, but education is a business and we need to recognize it as such."
"It's not a business and I'm not an executive. This is called public education for a reason. I serve, because I care about my students. I am a civil servant representing my community and I don't think my community wants to sell a child's mind to a wolf in professional clothing."
"All curriculum costs money."
"That's not the issue. Yes, books cost money. But this man has a whole system set up designed to teach rote skills and make him a fortune."
"Pencil Island is amazing, Tom. Information is broken down into consumable parts for children."
"Consumable. That's the problem. Children should be thinking, not consuming."
"This is the Age of Industry. We need to prepare future factory workers. Back when we had farmers, well, it made sense to teach holistically. But we can't. We need compliant workers. We're pulling out of an economic panic and we have to educate our way into becoming an industrial nation."
"If that's the case, why bother with school? I hear most factories will hire kids as young as five or six. We won't even need to turn the school into a factory. I think Rockefeller could hook them up with a job. Might as well start them early when their hands are nimble."
"Do you suggest that we give them an archaic education? Set them up to be liberal arts majors. How many jobs these days are asking for philosophy majors?"
"No, the challenge we face is giving kids a classic, holistic education within the context of our industrial age. Setting kids down in isolation to fill out worksheet packets seems like a step in the wrong direction."
I leave the meeting wanting to slam a door, but the principal has taken the door off the hinge in an effort to create an open atmosphere. So, I end up storming off in anger and then I feel horrible about getting so passionate about something I can't control.
reflections on being Techno-Tommy
I didn't coin the nickname. My principal gave it to me in my first year of teaching. "Thomas, you are the only one on staff who can switch the circuit breaker. You seem to get the grid. You are a techno genius. I listen to you talk about the how the phonograph works and why we need pencils in class and I think you are just the man to lead our school into the twentieth century. You're Techno-Tommy."
On some level, the nickname works. It's certainly better than Jackass Jackson or Adequate Andy. If I'm going to have a nickname with alliteration, might as well be Techno-Tommy. Still, most teachers don't realize that there's a streak of Luddite in me (indeed, I was a bit anti-industrial in my participation at the Haymarket Square Riots).
I worry about the merging of man and machine. When I hear people embracing a new Industrial World and bragging about a Gilded Age, I cringe. I fear that preparing students for a life in the factory might make economic sense, but it's not sustainable. When educators talk of the science of learning and the need for data, I wonder if we're turning children into micro-machines.
I worry that, in an industrial world, we might become so immense that we become myopic. I think of the Emperor's New Clothes and wonder if that's us - expanding this empire and failing to see our own nakedness. Don't get me wrong, we can dominate the Spanish-American War and go on about Manifest Destiny, but if cheap goods and more factory is our vision of humanity, I begin to doubt progress.
We don't have gas or electric in our home and for what it's worth, I doubt that I'll ever purchase one of those cool German horseless carriages. My horse might be stubborn, but on a deep level, I know her. I doubt that automobile owners can say the same thing. After all, would any fool actually give a horseless carriage a name? I can't fathom a day when someone tries to describe a car by saying, "Check out my mustang. What a beauty!"
I held my daughter the other night and she could hardly see the stars. I think that gas lamps in the street are a grave mistake. We traded in our connection to the cosmos for a little false security. So, I can see a street thug, but I miss the vast universe that surrounds me. If the magi lived in our urban enclave, they would have missed the incarnation. Sometimes I wonder if the same happens here. It's hard to see God when surrounded by smoke stacks.
Don't get me wrong, I want to integrate pencils and occasionally use a motion picture and I do marvel at the wonders of a light bulb. In my classroom, I want to use the photograph and the phonograph and have access to a telegraph (and really all the other words ending in "graph"). But I will never truly embrace the name Techno-Tommy.
On some level, the nickname works. It's certainly better than Jackass Jackson or Adequate Andy. If I'm going to have a nickname with alliteration, might as well be Techno-Tommy. Still, most teachers don't realize that there's a streak of Luddite in me (indeed, I was a bit anti-industrial in my participation at the Haymarket Square Riots).
I worry about the merging of man and machine. When I hear people embracing a new Industrial World and bragging about a Gilded Age, I cringe. I fear that preparing students for a life in the factory might make economic sense, but it's not sustainable. When educators talk of the science of learning and the need for data, I wonder if we're turning children into micro-machines.
I worry that, in an industrial world, we might become so immense that we become myopic. I think of the Emperor's New Clothes and wonder if that's us - expanding this empire and failing to see our own nakedness. Don't get me wrong, we can dominate the Spanish-American War and go on about Manifest Destiny, but if cheap goods and more factory is our vision of humanity, I begin to doubt progress.
We don't have gas or electric in our home and for what it's worth, I doubt that I'll ever purchase one of those cool German horseless carriages. My horse might be stubborn, but on a deep level, I know her. I doubt that automobile owners can say the same thing. After all, would any fool actually give a horseless carriage a name? I can't fathom a day when someone tries to describe a car by saying, "Check out my mustang. What a beauty!"
I held my daughter the other night and she could hardly see the stars. I think that gas lamps in the street are a grave mistake. We traded in our connection to the cosmos for a little false security. So, I can see a street thug, but I miss the vast universe that surrounds me. If the magi lived in our urban enclave, they would have missed the incarnation. Sometimes I wonder if the same happens here. It's hard to see God when surrounded by smoke stacks.
Don't get me wrong, I want to integrate pencils and occasionally use a motion picture and I do marvel at the wonders of a light bulb. In my classroom, I want to use the photograph and the phonograph and have access to a telegraph (and really all the other words ending in "graph"). But I will never truly embrace the name Techno-Tommy.
banning binders in professional development
Our new principal decided to institute a "norm" (just call it a rule, please) regarding the use of paper and pencil in professional development meetings.
"I'm not angry with anyone, but I did notice some grids of Buzzword Bingo and several people who were passing notes or drawing pictures instead of using their paper for note-taking. To avoid the distractions, we will add this to our collective norms."
I feel split on this issue. On one hand, I agree with him. Members of our staff are not truly present when their head is in a notebook. Often, the note-passing becomes a distraction and they miss crucial information. Besides, it can feel disrespectful to the presenters when the teachers are playing a game of Buzzword Bingo. I don't buy into the teachers' claim that they are taking notes. Who could possibly find the need to access information from an incredibly dull professional development?
However, I see this as a bandage on a massive open wound. Teachers are not actively engaged in professional development, because the meetings are not engaging. If I sit silently without a paper in my hand, my mind will wander. And, while the system would love to take that as well, as long as I have self-determination, I have my own mind.
Honestly, when I am sketching pictures I am listening. It's a hands-on way for me to keep my attention. Would a presenter rather me focus on a sketch or on that person's bad comb-over? It's not about physical engagement as much as mental engagement.
A better solution would be to change professional development so that:
"I'm not angry with anyone, but I did notice some grids of Buzzword Bingo and several people who were passing notes or drawing pictures instead of using their paper for note-taking. To avoid the distractions, we will add this to our collective norms."
I feel split on this issue. On one hand, I agree with him. Members of our staff are not truly present when their head is in a notebook. Often, the note-passing becomes a distraction and they miss crucial information. Besides, it can feel disrespectful to the presenters when the teachers are playing a game of Buzzword Bingo. I don't buy into the teachers' claim that they are taking notes. Who could possibly find the need to access information from an incredibly dull professional development?
However, I see this as a bandage on a massive open wound. Teachers are not actively engaged in professional development, because the meetings are not engaging. If I sit silently without a paper in my hand, my mind will wander. And, while the system would love to take that as well, as long as I have self-determination, I have my own mind.
Honestly, when I am sketching pictures I am listening. It's a hands-on way for me to keep my attention. Would a presenter rather me focus on a sketch or on that person's bad comb-over? It's not about physical engagement as much as mental engagement.
A better solution would be to change professional development so that:
- It is relevant and job-embedded so that teachers feel that what they are doing connects to the subject they are teaching
- It is collaborative and horizontal so that teachers can provide their own expertise
- It is assessed on a student or school-wide level
- It is interactive
- It takes into consideration issues of self-efficacy and motivation and not simply skills. Yes, it's cool to know a skill, but what about the conceptual knowledge and the notion of how a skill will be used in the classroom?
- It models how we would want to teach. Don't lecture to me about the vices of lecturing to students.
- It is pencil-integrated. Yes, allow teachers to use our binders and paper and pencil in graphing data, writing up proposals and creating lessons together.
So, instead of banning binders, I would use them in a pencil-integrated approach to professional development. If you make it interesting, you might find that I won't be sketching cartoons making fun of former president Grover Cleveland.
Pencil Island
indeed, island is a perfect metaphor to describe the isolation and loneliness of worksheet learning
"Is he really a consultant or a salesman?" I ask.
"Just meet with him. He tried sending you a telegram and you never answered."
"Sorry, I meant to go see him. My horse was broken down. I'll . . . I'll meet with him I guess."
Minutes later, I'm ushered into a room where a smiling man in a three-piece suit is sitting down. "I brought you some bagels and Coke. I hope you don't mind."
"I'm not sure I should be consuming cocaine on day that I have to work, but I'll have a bagel." It's strikes me that the Coca-Cola and the product he's selling aren't entirely different. Sweet, efficient, addicting, but in the end deadly to a child.
"We have a whole system that you can use in a pencil-integrated classroom. Imagine this: each child learns discreet skills independently. Step-by-step they move through a sequential order designed for the mastery of each math, reading and writing skill."
"Wouldn't it make sense to have students use paper and pencil to write papers and solve equations? What if they did some of it independently and worked cooperatively together instead?" I argue.
The consultant-snake-oil-salesman answers, "That sounds great. But aren't you tired of kids not working? This allows each child to work at his or her level independently. Each time they do a worksheet correctly, you put a sticker on the paper. If they pass all the pencil-based worksheet tests, they can earn the chance to play a pencil game. You can even allow free drawing time if you'd like."
"Do teachers need training on this?" the principal asks.
"We provide our own professional development. However, trust me, it's a very user-friendly system. Teachers love it, because it replaces the teacher with the program. Think of it this way. You move from a sage on stage to a guide on the side."
Note to self: never trust people who rhyme their responses.
Don't get me wrong. There is a time to practice discreet skills. But it seems to me that worksheets fail to inspire. If you aim for "basic skills" you won't hit it. If students work on authentic pencil-integrated projects, though, and have to use critical thinking, the skills will increase along the way.
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