"So, are you going to take that job?" Mr. Brown asks.
"Yeah, I think I am."
"What about our proposal?" asks Mrs. Jackson. "That was our baby."
It's silent. "I mean, oops, these are Victorian times. We would never have a baby together. It's a metaphor you know. Because, well, it would be wrong on so many levels . . . okay, just one level, but one very important level and you know . . . "
"I get it. I know how to spot a metaphor," I explain.
"What's going to happen to it?" Mr. Brown asks.
"I'm going part-time. I'll work as a pencil teacher the first half of the day then oversee our plan, the new pencil professional development and the district pencil classes. Nothing will change."
"Don't lie to yourself. You can't be pulled away and change both your status and position and pretend that things will be the same. We'll be friends, but I guarantee that you will change."
"People always promise that they'll stay in touch, that they'll stay grounded. But even if you teach part time you forget. You forget how to hold your bladder for hours. You forget what it's like when one kid wears you down by the end of the day. I don't think it's wrong that you're going half-half, but don't be shocked if you only feel like half a teacher."
It's like a shot of whiskey and I'm thinking whiskey shouldn't be consumed at ten thirty in the morning. So, I change the topic. "How about that local hometown sports team? I hear they are doing really well and perhaps we can live vicariously through their arbitrary athletic pursuits."
AT&T - Part One
I meet up with Paul the Pre-industrial Poet for a pint. We promise not to have "shop talk," but inevitably it slips in. I suppose it's because neither of us really views teaching as a shop. If it were, we'd have left long ago for a higher paying gig - and who knows, perhaps that's why teachers will never completely demand their rights. It's easy to screw over people who aren't in it for the money.
Mr. Brown says he doesn't mind that they screw us over, but they at least owe us a smoke afterward. He can get away saying stuff like that, because his highly educated accent makes even the crudest comments sound charming to Americans.
Mr. Brown says he doesn't mind that they screw us over, but they at least owe us a smoke afterward. He can get away saying stuff like that, because his highly educated accent makes even the crudest comments sound charming to Americans.
"So, I met with the sales guy from the American Telephone and Telegraph company. He's trying to sell me on this idea of having a telephone in my room and a telegraph at my school."
"Are you going to do it?" he asks.
"I have my reservations. It just seems like another example of a teacher-centered technology. Like an Edison projector or a chalkboard from Man-Who-Stole-Fire-From-The-Gods company. Seriously, a century from now every classroom will have a phone and teachers will still be the ones to use it."
"Maybe. Or a century from now, they'll find a way to combine the telephone and the telegraph and they'll make it portable. It's what happens to all media. Pictographs are permanent and expensive and located on cave walls and then they are portable on papyrus and then the printing press turns reading from a collective experience to an individual one. Some day they'll do the same to motion pictures and telephones and maybe all on one device."
"Sounds cool to me. Students will finally have a chance to use a technology that was once teacher-centered."
"Maybe. Or maybe schools will ban them, because the real issue is one of power. Who wants students to have instant access to information at all times? Dangerous stuff, Tom. Teachers won't want to give up the control. So, my guess is like the pen pal networks and the personal journals, schools will ban the portable telegraphs."
steam punk or sell-out
The district office administrator called me into his office. "Mr. Johnson, I've been reading your plog."
I sat there silently.
"There's some good stuff in there. You're a forward thinker. The question is what we should do with you. How can we use you best?" I don't want to be used. For all the talk of human resources, I'm more human than I am resource.
"I think the classroom is working well out well for me."
"Look, I read your entry about Pencil Class. I almost left an anonymous comment on the margin. Instead, I thought I would talk to you about it. What if you could be in charge of the pencil classes? I think you have ideas."
"I do. I would like to shift the class into a publishing class. Let kids go through the writing process and participate in creating literary magazines and social issues magazines. Let them have an elective where they use the pencils for something more relevant than penmanship."
"We'll have a formal interview and all, but is this something that would interest you? You could have more of an impact."
"I'm afraid I'll lose perspective. I'll forget what the classroom is like."
"So, you teach in the morning. No more waiting all day to urinating. No more cramming in a twenty minute lunch. Think about it. Then you hop on your horse and visit a different classroom each afternoon. You'll be a resource for the teachers." Again, there's that term. I don't want to be a resource. I don't want to be used.
"That's something to consider."
"We have a great grant from Carnegie. We need someone forward thinking. Someone progressive who will lead us into the twentieth century. I think you are our man."
"I once protested at one of Carnegie's factories and I'm nervous about robber barons who try and buy influence. I'm nervous that their voice will win out and that we'll move toward job skills instead of learning to live well. I'm worried about the factory model of education. You say progressive, but moving forward doesn't always mean moving up."
"Couldn't you offer that perspective? Couldn't you be the one to steer the program that direction?"
Honestly, with Caravan to the Top and all of the reforms of the McKinley administration, it seems that teachers are losing autonomy. We're no longer public servants, but rather cogs in an edufactory. So, I'm leaning toward taking this position. And yet, it bothers me. I'm wondering if this means selling out.
I sat there silently.
"There's some good stuff in there. You're a forward thinker. The question is what we should do with you. How can we use you best?" I don't want to be used. For all the talk of human resources, I'm more human than I am resource.
"I think the classroom is working well out well for me."
"Look, I read your entry about Pencil Class. I almost left an anonymous comment on the margin. Instead, I thought I would talk to you about it. What if you could be in charge of the pencil classes? I think you have ideas."
"I do. I would like to shift the class into a publishing class. Let kids go through the writing process and participate in creating literary magazines and social issues magazines. Let them have an elective where they use the pencils for something more relevant than penmanship."
"We'll have a formal interview and all, but is this something that would interest you? You could have more of an impact."
"I'm afraid I'll lose perspective. I'll forget what the classroom is like."
"So, you teach in the morning. No more waiting all day to urinating. No more cramming in a twenty minute lunch. Think about it. Then you hop on your horse and visit a different classroom each afternoon. You'll be a resource for the teachers." Again, there's that term. I don't want to be a resource. I don't want to be used.
"That's something to consider."
"We have a great grant from Carnegie. We need someone forward thinking. Someone progressive who will lead us into the twentieth century. I think you are our man."
"I once protested at one of Carnegie's factories and I'm nervous about robber barons who try and buy influence. I'm nervous that their voice will win out and that we'll move toward job skills instead of learning to live well. I'm worried about the factory model of education. You say progressive, but moving forward doesn't always mean moving up."
"Couldn't you offer that perspective? Couldn't you be the one to steer the program that direction?"
Honestly, with Caravan to the Top and all of the reforms of the McKinley administration, it seems that teachers are losing autonomy. We're no longer public servants, but rather cogs in an edufactory. So, I'm leaning toward taking this position. And yet, it bothers me. I'm wondering if this means selling out.
pencils and pointless prep
"Mr. Johnson, why do we use pencils?" Cynical Gifted Boy asks.
"It's a learning tool. Why do we learn?" I ask him.
"We learn to pass the test so that we can get into the honor's program in junior high so that we can pass the test to get into the honor's program in high school so that by 1901 we can pass the new SAT test so that we can get into the better university so that we can get a better job," Cynical Gifted Boy answers.
"What then?" I ask him.
"I think you work hard and look forward to retirement, where you wonder what happened to your life and why no one wants to talk to you, because they are too busy passing the test to get the job to get the high pay to guarantee that they'll have a good retirement."
What if we taught in the now rather than as a preparation for the future? Don't get me wrong, we are always preparing for something else, but it happens by being relevant today. I use pencils and paper, not because it is necessary for a particular job, but because it is what they need right now to learn.
sorry kiddos, but pencils aren't always fun
I read a kid's plog today. It was a free write where he described how horribly bored he was while writing. For a piece about boredom, it was honestly pretty fascinating; vascilating between clever wordplay and edgy sarcasm. I should have enjoyed it more. However, "that's boring," is a phrase guaranteed to hurt me. On a very rational level, I get the need for play and the aversion toward work. What I don't understand is the aversion to learning. Perhaps I've played a role in blurring the two.
On a more emotional level, I take it personally. I try hard to make lessons relevant and meaningful, challenging but not too challenging. I throw myself into what I teach and sometimes the wall of apathy can feel like a wall of spikes. If I'm not careful, tiny disruptions can feel like a slap in the face. I know, I know, they're kids. It's not a social contract.
I pull out a paper and write a letter. It's not meant to be sarcastic and it's not even meant to be sent. It's a letter to all students:
Dear Student,
I know that learning might feel boring to you. I know that you want fun. Clowns and puppets and a Great Dane that juggles fire. I can't offer you fun. Don't get me wrong, there will be moments of fun. There will be moments of humor. But these are moments.
What I offer is meaning. I offer you a chance to learn. I provide you with challenging tasks, a ton of autonomy and a chance to explore the questions in your mind. If you find that boring, I can't help you. The truth is that you've been fed a lie. Through bribes and extortion, you learned that learning is a chore that demands a commodity in return. I can't give you confectionary delights.
I know that there has been some confusion. You are used to using pencils for the pen pal networks (and admittedly we will use Pen Pal networks in our class) or for creating pictures (we'll do that here, too, sometimes). Still, our class uses pencils for learning. If it's fun, that's great. But fun isn't the bottom line.
You learned that the opposite of boring is fun. Someday, hopefully, you'll find that fun is not the antithesis of boredom. It's simply a numbing agent. It's what you rub on the wound when your sense of meaning has been amputated. What you need is something that has been missing. And the true miracle is that it is possible to regain that sense of meaning that you lost somewhere in grade school.
Don't get me wrong, there will moments of boredom and frustration. I had days when I struggled to learn my multiplication tables and I hated Shakespeare the first go-round. However, if you can see these moments of dull tasks as an integral part of the meaningful learning experience, you might just find that they become at least a little more tolerable.
Sincerely,
Mr. Johnson
I once viewed pencils as a magical talisman that would transform every student into a self-motivated learner. I believed that the Pencil Natives would grab hold of a pencil and start creating amazing works of poetry and narrative. I thought that the simple existence of paper would mean clarity of thought, critical thinking and logic in persuasive writing.
It worked for a day or two, but eventually the pencil novelty wore off and students realized that they were working with tools. Looking back on it, I was no different than the students. I confused novelty and fun with meaning and depth. I'd like to think I know better now, but a "that's boring" comment can apparently still throw me over the edge.
On a more emotional level, I take it personally. I try hard to make lessons relevant and meaningful, challenging but not too challenging. I throw myself into what I teach and sometimes the wall of apathy can feel like a wall of spikes. If I'm not careful, tiny disruptions can feel like a slap in the face. I know, I know, they're kids. It's not a social contract.
I pull out a paper and write a letter. It's not meant to be sarcastic and it's not even meant to be sent. It's a letter to all students:
Dear Student,
I know that learning might feel boring to you. I know that you want fun. Clowns and puppets and a Great Dane that juggles fire. I can't offer you fun. Don't get me wrong, there will be moments of fun. There will be moments of humor. But these are moments.
What I offer is meaning. I offer you a chance to learn. I provide you with challenging tasks, a ton of autonomy and a chance to explore the questions in your mind. If you find that boring, I can't help you. The truth is that you've been fed a lie. Through bribes and extortion, you learned that learning is a chore that demands a commodity in return. I can't give you confectionary delights.
I know that there has been some confusion. You are used to using pencils for the pen pal networks (and admittedly we will use Pen Pal networks in our class) or for creating pictures (we'll do that here, too, sometimes). Still, our class uses pencils for learning. If it's fun, that's great. But fun isn't the bottom line.
You learned that the opposite of boring is fun. Someday, hopefully, you'll find that fun is not the antithesis of boredom. It's simply a numbing agent. It's what you rub on the wound when your sense of meaning has been amputated. What you need is something that has been missing. And the true miracle is that it is possible to regain that sense of meaning that you lost somewhere in grade school.
Don't get me wrong, there will moments of boredom and frustration. I had days when I struggled to learn my multiplication tables and I hated Shakespeare the first go-round. However, if you can see these moments of dull tasks as an integral part of the meaningful learning experience, you might just find that they become at least a little more tolerable.
Sincerely,
Mr. Johnson
* * *
I once viewed pencils as a magical talisman that would transform every student into a self-motivated learner. I believed that the Pencil Natives would grab hold of a pencil and start creating amazing works of poetry and narrative. I thought that the simple existence of paper would mean clarity of thought, critical thinking and logic in persuasive writing.
It worked for a day or two, but eventually the pencil novelty wore off and students realized that they were working with tools. Looking back on it, I was no different than the students. I confused novelty and fun with meaning and depth. I'd like to think I know better now, but a "that's boring" comment can apparently still throw me over the edge.
changes to this blog
So, I'm changing a few things on this blog. Nothing severe. Same sarcasm. Same spattering of historical references melded with thinly veiled modern metaphors. However, I'll be doing a few things here:
- Adding dates to the blog posts, so that it reads like a longer chronicle of events. In other words, a blog post one day might be April 12th and the next will be May 3rd.
- With the dates, I'll be adding a side-bar of all of the events in chronological order.
- Shifting toward story. While I will still post a few rantings and ravings, I want to have a story arc and I'd like that story arc to resemble my own journey with technology (though not in any way the exact same events.)
- Make use of labels for events, ideas and characters. You'll see what I'm talking about soon.
- Link to past events within the blog post. In other words, if I mention using Nong, it might not be bad to link it to the original post where the Nong event was mentioned.
This blog began to feel stagnant for awhile and I considered deleting it. However, I think I just need to adjust it a bit. It's been really fun to write it. I've never done fiction before.
one pencil per child
A student brings in an article for his functional text. It's a story about the One Pencil Per Child initiative.
"Sorry kiddo, but this isn't a functional text," I explain to him.
"Sure it is. It's telling the reader how to colonize Africa with pencils."
"It's informational text with some narrative mixed in," I explain.
"But it's an implied functional text. At the end there is even a description of what you can do to help."
I inform him that he will need to bring in a new article tomorrow, but we will discuss his article together as a class during our civics time. For what it's worth, I'm not so sure that civics needs to be a class. Shouldn't everything we do be a civics lesson? Shouldn't our aim to be to encourage critical thinking, democratic citizenship? Doesn't exactly fit our factory school, though.
* * *
"Is this good for the children in Africa?" I ask.
One girl steps in, "Would you ask that same question about Europe? It seems to me that Africa is a whole continent with different languages and cultures. Yet we treat it like it's this one entity. The people of Africa have no chance to determine their own national and cultural identity." It's a hard topic for her, because her family is from Africa and she is mixed race and our town is generally segregated.
Another boy adds, "We've been learning about imperialism. It seems like passing out paper and pencils to kids is simply another form of imperialism."
"I disagree," a girl responds. "Imperialism has motives of conquering and using resources. It doesn't respect the rights of the people."
"And you think this does? Did anyone from the OPPC study the needs of the people? Did anyone study the culture? No, they just toss out green pencils and claim that it will lead to freedom. Africa needs economic development. Africa needs the right to nationhood without interference from imperial powers. Pencils are nice, but I don't think they are very helpful in keeping France and Britain out of your backyard."
"So, do we do nothing? It seems like doing nothing just makes it worse. Kids need paper and pencil. They need an education. We can talk about imperialism, but let's be honest, every kid needs a chance to write."
"Maybe," a kid adds. "And maybe the pencils will be a good thing. But I still think it's imperialism. It's using kids' minds for their own good. Why are they doing this? To feel good about themselves probably. And to get a little recognition when people see just how shiny and durable the green pencils are. So, they might have good intentions, but it's still imperialism if they are using the minds of Africa to boost their sense of purpose."
* * *
When I tell Mr. Brown about this story, he explains to me, "I am the product of colonialism. I hate that word product, but that's how it feels. I don't even know my Indian last name. My language, my clothes, my religion - all British. I think they're asking the right questions."
"It makes me wonder about our grant proposal. If we have a guy like Carnegie paying for our education, isn't he now the one with the loudest voice? And even if he is looking out for kids and really wants us to have pencils, isn't he failing to look at the injustices of his own factory? Sometimes I wonder if we should raise the money from the community instead. Let the resources come from the locals."
"Or not," Mr. Brown reminds me. "Look, there is injustice in all the resources we use. You can get all worked up about the iPaper and the waste of money when we could get open source paper. However, you miss the fact that little kids in the factory are making the paper that our kids are using. Or we talk about imperialism and that's fine, but how often do you push your own agenda on your kids? Everyone is guilty either by complicity or apathy or outright participation. The amazing part is that out of injustice something beautiful grows."
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