Despite its versatility, few people respect the pencil. While we talk admire the permanence of ink, we use "pencil me in" with a certain sense of derision. It's temporary. It's gray. For all its graphite glory, it seems immanently practical and yet always tentative, always questioning, always mysterious, always meandering through shades of gray.
My students are at that age where the pencil becomes their own metaphor. Few of them can articulate it, but they relate to the medium itself. I watch students sketching pictures and delicately smudging the graphite in order to create value and texture and shading. A simple circle turns spherical. An abstract face turns fleshy. Perhaps I'm overstating the case, but my eighth graders embrace the power of to create and to destroy and to wander in this mystery while they still can.
A fourteen year old yearns for freedom and yet still clings to the safety of childhood. At one moment, she might be lashing out at the world and demanding autonomy and yet in the next, she is wounded by its darkness and crying in pain. This ebb and flow, this graphite confusion, is true of even the "best behaved" of the bunch.
It's sketchy.
It's permanent and temporary.
It's change, constant change, sometimes in smooth lines and sometimes in wild, dark jagged edges.
A first grade teacher pulls me aside and complains, "William was mouthy."
"What happened?"
"I asked him why he was here and he said, 'We're all trying to find that out. Isn't that the point of life?' and so I asked him again and he gave me attitude again."
"So what did you do?"
"I told him that he couldn't have his pencil out during school."
"And?"
"And he said that school was out and so I told him that he was still on school property and he said that school wasn't a place, it was the people and the ideas. Otherwise you wouldn't have to do homework, since the physical space doesn't hold any magical powers."
I laugh at this response. She shows me her Teacher Death Stare.
"What did you do next?"
"I told him that this was no way to talk to a teacher and that he can be paddled for it if we need to go there."
"I don't blame you for being angry. Eighth graders can be disrespectful. What she doesn't undrerstand is that their misbehavior often confuses themselves. They are moody, emotional and experimental. They are testing the boundaries of humor and social interaction. Everything in their world has gone from black and white to gray. They feel penciled in and a part of them embraces this change and yet each child is scared and lonely as well."
"I just don't get them. They can be so rude," she adds.
"The thing is that little kids are just as rude. They give unexpected hugs, ignoring the rules of space. They interrupt you when they are excited. Some of them still lack the ability to fart silently. And they yell in those squeaky little voices of theirs."
"But they can't help it. That's their age."
"Same with fourteen year olds. In a fourteen year old's mind, just about everything is temporary and everything is changing and honestly that's a major part of the disrespect. They want to be treated like kids and adults."
"I don't get it. It has to be one or the other."
"Or both."
It strikes me that I have been shaped by the students I teach. I embrace the mystery. I accept the duality. Somewhere deep within, I get the yearning for freedom. I've learned to navigate the comments and use them as a chance for student self-reflection.
On the other hand, she accepts the rules and embraces the structure and understands that the literal and the permanent are so necessary for life. In this moment, we fail to see one another. She's writing the world in ink and I'm sketching it out in pencil.
Showing posts with label Pencil Integration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pencil Integration. Show all posts
He Just Likes the Class for the Pencils
I'm not the Nice Guy Teacher who hands out candy and offers free time (Isn't all education supposed to be an act of liberation?) and plays the pal at recess and lunch time. I am strict. I allow a large amount of freedom (we have tables instead of desks, where the students are allowed to eat and they may choose where to sit), but I will correct a child every time I see disrespect or laziness.
Somehow I get the reputation as the Nice Guy Teacher, though. Thus teachers who have never visited my room often seem surprised by the lack of chaos and the serious demeanor that I have. I want my students to enjoy learning, but I also want them to grasp the fact that it is a serious endeavor. So, I use some humor and try and develop a good relationship with them. However, I expect full mental engagement.
I'm in a "behavior meeting," with a parent, a child and three other teachers. Under the guise of "finding solutions," each teacher blames and shames until the boy cries. (Occasionally teachers will actually delight in this, believing that shame leads to a change in direction, when, in fact, it leads to perfectionism, rebellion and ultimately hedging your bets and wearing masks so that no one ever knows you)
"He's doing well for me. I teach all the subjects except for the electives," I explain.
"That's only because of the pencils," another teacher says.
"I really think it's because he and I have found a way to get along," I add.
Another teacher says, "I wish I had a set of pencils. Maybe he would behave for me. I know he loves pencils. I guess we can't all have it our way."
"I'm not sure the pencils are the thing that makes it meanin. . ."
"Don't get defensive, Tom. He loves your class for the pencils. At least he doesn't interrupt you with stupid questions. In gym class . . ."
His voice trails off and I check out. Turns out this meeting was meant to shame and blame me. What he doesn't realize is that pencils will be exciting for a day. Any new technology is like that. We have a phonograph that the students fell in love with for a week. We have access to a telegraph that we use on occasion.
Ultimately, though, it is about trust and purpose. This child trusts me, because I don't shame him. In fact, the one time I yelled at him, I apologized and he responded with humility and strength. He trusts me, because I know him and I know him, because I take the time to listen. This child sees meaning and purpose in what we do in class. I try not to waste his time with meaningless work and in return he doesn't waste my time with meaningless chatter.
None of that requires a pencil.
When the meeting is over, the teachers walk out first. The child is sitting with his face buried in his hands, tears streaming down. An angry mother sits beside him.
As he gets up to leave, he says, "I don't just like your class for the pencils. I like pencils. But I like your class because it's fun. No, sometimes it's really boring and, I don't know. I don't know why I like your class, but it isn't just the pencils."
"I know," I tell him.
Somehow I get the reputation as the Nice Guy Teacher, though. Thus teachers who have never visited my room often seem surprised by the lack of chaos and the serious demeanor that I have. I want my students to enjoy learning, but I also want them to grasp the fact that it is a serious endeavor. So, I use some humor and try and develop a good relationship with them. However, I expect full mental engagement.
I'm in a "behavior meeting," with a parent, a child and three other teachers. Under the guise of "finding solutions," each teacher blames and shames until the boy cries. (Occasionally teachers will actually delight in this, believing that shame leads to a change in direction, when, in fact, it leads to perfectionism, rebellion and ultimately hedging your bets and wearing masks so that no one ever knows you)
"He's doing well for me. I teach all the subjects except for the electives," I explain.
"That's only because of the pencils," another teacher says.
"I really think it's because he and I have found a way to get along," I add.
Another teacher says, "I wish I had a set of pencils. Maybe he would behave for me. I know he loves pencils. I guess we can't all have it our way."
"I'm not sure the pencils are the thing that makes it meanin. . ."
"Don't get defensive, Tom. He loves your class for the pencils. At least he doesn't interrupt you with stupid questions. In gym class . . ."
His voice trails off and I check out. Turns out this meeting was meant to shame and blame me. What he doesn't realize is that pencils will be exciting for a day. Any new technology is like that. We have a phonograph that the students fell in love with for a week. We have access to a telegraph that we use on occasion.
Ultimately, though, it is about trust and purpose. This child trusts me, because I don't shame him. In fact, the one time I yelled at him, I apologized and he responded with humility and strength. He trusts me, because I know him and I know him, because I take the time to listen. This child sees meaning and purpose in what we do in class. I try not to waste his time with meaningless work and in return he doesn't waste my time with meaningless chatter.
None of that requires a pencil.
When the meeting is over, the teachers walk out first. The child is sitting with his face buried in his hands, tears streaming down. An angry mother sits beside him.
As he gets up to leave, he says, "I don't just like your class for the pencils. I like pencils. But I like your class because it's fun. No, sometimes it's really boring and, I don't know. I don't know why I like your class, but it isn't just the pencils."
"I know," I tell him.
The Medium Shapes the Learning
My students toured one of Edison's film studios. They saw firsthand how something so lifelike is actually a production.
Production.
The filmmakers chop up bits and pieces of captured, vital life and reproduce it into something new.
It's magic to us. We're mesmerized by the dancing light and the larger-than-life figures haunting us in their "not-really-here but not-really-gone" since of permanence. Everything is smoother, grander and more seductive than the terrestrial reality of a school yard.
Yes, I know it is about light hitting a photograph and moving. "Motion picture" sounds tame. But given the nature of light, the paradox of ray and particle, I can't help but see the magic of the motion picture. When they perfect the art of phonography, we'll have talking motion pictures. Perhaps a century from now we'll have it all at the palm of our hands - the ability to pick apart and edit life and present it as something new and magical.
* * *
"Why can't we get a film studio on campus?" a student asks me.
"I'm not sure about the medium," I tell him.
"So, just teach like you normally would and add some motion picture parts. I bet it would be fun. Imagine what we would produce."
Fun.
Produce.
I'm thinking of the Roman notion of bread and circus. I always assumed bread was the more powerful element. I'm now understanding the pull of circus. It's not that I am opposed to fun, per se. It's just that often "fun" is the cheap replacement of "intriguing" or "meaningful" or "beautiful" or "life-changing." Edison's studio is, in fact, a fun factory. I cannot and should not reproduce it.
* * *
Educators often believe that they have the power to wield each tool to fit their own purpose. They assume that a lesson can remain virtually unchanged when a new medium is added. Often, the metaphor is one of a tool - though, they would never use a tool in this way. Who would ever say, "We need to screw this in with a hammer?"
There is something inherently dangerous about taking every technological device and applying it to learning without ever asking the intended meaning of a medium. A pencil, for example, is inherently individual, deliberately vague (shades of gray, ability to erase), intellectual, portable and text-based. A film is, by contrast, visual, collective, emotional, geography-bound, visual and non-linear.
If I begin with a lesson plan and simply pick a tool based upon "fun" or "productivity" or "student engagement," I am running the risk of teaching something entirely unintended. If I introduce a telegraph as a source of knowledge, we send an implied message that knowledge should be portable, consumable and in small increments.
I am not opposed to adding new tools to learning. I simply want us to recognize that whatever tools we choose will reshape learning in ways that we often fail to recognize.
How I Got Roped Into a Satirical Workshop Presentation
We all had to fill out a sheet of paper (you should have seen the complaints teachers made about having to use pencils in professional development) describing what type of workshop presentation we want to deliver in our monthly district professional development.
I don't mind the notion of a monthly professional development, despite the reality that the best skills I have learned occurred in a relational context, within the process of teaching and only among a small number of people. That and it usually involved a pint or two.
I simply don't have anything to teach, which makes it a dangerous venue for me. I play Icarus with the group and take the wings they offer me and then sail beyond my area of expertise. I get arrogant. I put on an act. It's not that people dislike it. In fact, they are often enjoying the show. It's just that it's dangerous for me when I fall into the sea and I'm left in isolation to tread water with my arrogant self.
So, when I filled out my application, I wrote the following answers as a joke:
1. What is the most important element in a thriving economy?
The human element.
2. What do business leaders use to create economic growth?
They use humanity. All of us. Those who figure out how to manipulate people learn how to manipulate systems and create revenue for personal gain.
3. What is the most necessary skill needed in an industrial economy?
For those at the bottom, it is obedience and conformity. To those at the top, it is figuring out how to get people who are naturally inclined to freedom and individuality to sacrifice these ideals to serve the needs of the company.
Yeah, I realize it had an anti-capital streak to it. I'm a bit of a civil libertarian myself. More of a Thoreau than an Emerson than a Marx or a Tolstoy. (Though I was involved in the Haymarket Square protests back in the day)
Then again, it was a joke. So, I was a bit surprised when I received the telegraph explaining that they would love me to give "The Human Element" as a PD explaining the dangers in being obsessed with education-for-job-growth and missing out on the notion of education-for-life. Perhaps I could even go in character as a representative of a robber baron and force the audience into deconstructing the satire.
It will be interesting.
I'm thinking "The Human Element: Ten Ways to Teach Students to Use People for Personal Gain." I heard people love lists and numbers at PD.
I don't mind the notion of a monthly professional development, despite the reality that the best skills I have learned occurred in a relational context, within the process of teaching and only among a small number of people. That and it usually involved a pint or two.
I simply don't have anything to teach, which makes it a dangerous venue for me. I play Icarus with the group and take the wings they offer me and then sail beyond my area of expertise. I get arrogant. I put on an act. It's not that people dislike it. In fact, they are often enjoying the show. It's just that it's dangerous for me when I fall into the sea and I'm left in isolation to tread water with my arrogant self.
So, when I filled out my application, I wrote the following answers as a joke:
1. What is the most important element in a thriving economy?
The human element.
2. What do business leaders use to create economic growth?
They use humanity. All of us. Those who figure out how to manipulate people learn how to manipulate systems and create revenue for personal gain.
3. What is the most necessary skill needed in an industrial economy?
For those at the bottom, it is obedience and conformity. To those at the top, it is figuring out how to get people who are naturally inclined to freedom and individuality to sacrifice these ideals to serve the needs of the company.
Yeah, I realize it had an anti-capital streak to it. I'm a bit of a civil libertarian myself. More of a Thoreau than an Emerson than a Marx or a Tolstoy. (Though I was involved in the Haymarket Square protests back in the day)
Then again, it was a joke. So, I was a bit surprised when I received the telegraph explaining that they would love me to give "The Human Element" as a PD explaining the dangers in being obsessed with education-for-job-growth and missing out on the notion of education-for-life. Perhaps I could even go in character as a representative of a robber baron and force the audience into deconstructing the satire.
It will be interesting.
I'm thinking "The Human Element: Ten Ways to Teach Students to Use People for Personal Gain." I heard people love lists and numbers at PD.
No, I Won't Address Pencil Bullying
"Mr. Johnson, I think you need to talk to your class about pencil bullying," a district office representative explains to me.
"Can you elaborate on this?"
"Well, there was an incident where a student pinned up a note on the wall of another students' home."
"Was the wall private or public?"
"It was private, I suppose. But the point is that it was a clear act of pencil bullying."
"So, what would you like me to do about it?" I ask.
"Talk to your class about the severity of pencil bullying. Let them know that this type of behavior will not be tolerated."
Zero tolerance. Bad behavior.
We're missing the point. Our lack of tolerance and militaristic mindset is part of what causes bullying. When we fail to create a safe space for children, bullying increases. Furthermore, our obsession with behavior rather than the human condition only enhances the problem, because it fails to question why students choose to bully other students.
Is it the social capital they gain? Is it their own insecurity? Is it what they have seen modeled for them? Is it the result of being bullied?
I don't have the answers to any of those questions. However, I do know one thing: bullying is not a result of pencils. Yes, a public note can amplify the bullying. Yet, information spread verbally is just as devastating. A rumor can move just as quickly as a pencil-based message. However, it doesn't have a paper trail, making it stickier and more organic.
What if pencils do not change bullying so much as help us see that it is a part of the reality of childhood? What if the paper trail is now the collective voice of all the students who live in fear on a daily basis? Is it possible that bullying is not a new trend so much as it is a part of our public memory that we have deliberately forgotten in order to perpetuate a myth of the innocence of childhood? What if the deeper reality is that humankind can be dark, even at an early age?
Perhaps the answer isn't a classroom chat about pencil etiquette. Instead, the answer might be that we truly ask what it means to be human and what it means to love one another in the context of community. Instead of obsessing over pen pal networks and sharpened pencils, we might want to think about the nature of humanity and the darkness that we all share.
As I leave his office, he hands me a stack of fliers and a curriculum for pencil bullying entitled "Let's Erase Bullying." It has a smiling pencil giving a thumbs up. I'm doubtful that peppy propaganda will change things. I'm skeptical that Zero Tolerance will fix it as well. In fact, I don't have the answers on how to fix it at all, but I suspect it might be more simple and more complex than we imagine. It might just be that the only solution to "pencil bullying" is love.
"Can you elaborate on this?"
"Well, there was an incident where a student pinned up a note on the wall of another students' home."
"Was the wall private or public?"
"It was private, I suppose. But the point is that it was a clear act of pencil bullying."
"So, what would you like me to do about it?" I ask.
"Talk to your class about the severity of pencil bullying. Let them know that this type of behavior will not be tolerated."
Zero tolerance. Bad behavior.
We're missing the point. Our lack of tolerance and militaristic mindset is part of what causes bullying. When we fail to create a safe space for children, bullying increases. Furthermore, our obsession with behavior rather than the human condition only enhances the problem, because it fails to question why students choose to bully other students.
Is it the social capital they gain? Is it their own insecurity? Is it what they have seen modeled for them? Is it the result of being bullied?
I don't have the answers to any of those questions. However, I do know one thing: bullying is not a result of pencils. Yes, a public note can amplify the bullying. Yet, information spread verbally is just as devastating. A rumor can move just as quickly as a pencil-based message. However, it doesn't have a paper trail, making it stickier and more organic.
What if pencils do not change bullying so much as help us see that it is a part of the reality of childhood? What if the paper trail is now the collective voice of all the students who live in fear on a daily basis? Is it possible that bullying is not a new trend so much as it is a part of our public memory that we have deliberately forgotten in order to perpetuate a myth of the innocence of childhood? What if the deeper reality is that humankind can be dark, even at an early age?
Perhaps the answer isn't a classroom chat about pencil etiquette. Instead, the answer might be that we truly ask what it means to be human and what it means to love one another in the context of community. Instead of obsessing over pen pal networks and sharpened pencils, we might want to think about the nature of humanity and the darkness that we all share.
As I leave his office, he hands me a stack of fliers and a curriculum for pencil bullying entitled "Let's Erase Bullying." It has a smiling pencil giving a thumbs up. I'm doubtful that peppy propaganda will change things. I'm skeptical that Zero Tolerance will fix it as well. In fact, I don't have the answers on how to fix it at all, but I suspect it might be more simple and more complex than we imagine. It might just be that the only solution to "pencil bullying" is love.
Put the Pencil Down
The rainclouds gather and the class grows antsy in anticipation. For all the brick and concrete and steel of the school, the natural element has a way of awakening something primitive in every student. It's not that primitive is bad, either. It's simply deeper, more human, more earthy and real than dividing fractions.
The claps of thunder disrupt my monologue.
I let go.
Students gather near the windows and watch, studying first the drops and then the hail. A few brave souls venture outside and experiencing the pummeling of a lifetime, but the fist-fulls of atmospheric ice are a prize they relish.
"Is it safe to eat?" one asks.
A girl pulls out her paper and begins to draw. Her twin sister slaps her hand away and says, "Not yet. You can sketch later. Right now we can watch."
A boy standing by our class camera takes the twin's advice and sets down the machine.
When we study conflict, we study Man versus Nature and Man versus Machine. Today, though, we are watching Nature versus Machine and though the war may be lost, this battle belongs to the clouds.
The claps of thunder disrupt my monologue.
I let go.
Students gather near the windows and watch, studying first the drops and then the hail. A few brave souls venture outside and experiencing the pummeling of a lifetime, but the fist-fulls of atmospheric ice are a prize they relish.
"Is it safe to eat?" one asks.
A girl pulls out her paper and begins to draw. Her twin sister slaps her hand away and says, "Not yet. You can sketch later. Right now we can watch."
A boy standing by our class camera takes the twin's advice and sets down the machine.
When we study conflict, we study Man versus Nature and Man versus Machine. Today, though, we are watching Nature versus Machine and though the war may be lost, this battle belongs to the clouds.
How will people see us?
We take a few pictures with the Kodak we got last year. The students keep a serious pose, because this is the Guilded Age, very serious times and all. What with the rise of industry, might as well look industrious.
"Mr. Johnson, do you think people will confuse us when we're gone?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, when we're all dead, will people look at the pictures and get the wrong picture?" Kids say some of the most confusing and morbid things.
"I'm still not seeing your point."
"I mean, after we're dead and our children are dead. Not that we should be having children since we're children. But generations from now, will people look back at the scowls on our faces and think that things were more serious back in the day? I mean, will they think kids never through a paper or slammed a slate down or smiled when they hit a home run or told a joke? Will the picture be telling a lie?"
"Like Jesus," another girl adds. "It never says he smiled, but I don't know, I guess . . . I guess I just always pictured him smiling when the kids ran up to him."
I stop the class at this point as we discuss what we record, the artifacts we leave behind and the huge gaps that are missing in history as a result. Sometimes it seems that technology itself creates a narrative of a whole people group and its an image, but a very incomplete image. It's what society wants people to think of itself rather than who the people actually are. It has me thinking that maybe that's the tragedy of technology and the pitfall of posterity. It always leads to selective memory.
"Mr. Johnson, do you think people will confuse us when we're gone?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, when we're all dead, will people look at the pictures and get the wrong picture?" Kids say some of the most confusing and morbid things.
"I'm still not seeing your point."
"I mean, after we're dead and our children are dead. Not that we should be having children since we're children. But generations from now, will people look back at the scowls on our faces and think that things were more serious back in the day? I mean, will they think kids never through a paper or slammed a slate down or smiled when they hit a home run or told a joke? Will the picture be telling a lie?"
"Like Jesus," another girl adds. "It never says he smiled, but I don't know, I guess . . . I guess I just always pictured him smiling when the kids ran up to him."
I stop the class at this point as we discuss what we record, the artifacts we leave behind and the huge gaps that are missing in history as a result. Sometimes it seems that technology itself creates a narrative of a whole people group and its an image, but a very incomplete image. It's what society wants people to think of itself rather than who the people actually are. It has me thinking that maybe that's the tragedy of technology and the pitfall of posterity. It always leads to selective memory.
we still use slates
"What are these doing here?" a student asks.
"Yeah, they're slates. You've used them, correct?"
"But this is a pencil classroom. We have paper. What are we doing with individual slates?"
I explain to my students that there are times when students will use paper and times for pencils and times for slates.
"But slates are so old school!" the student explains.
"True, but so is the human voice. Don't we still discuss things in class?"
"I thought you believed in the twentieth century classroom?" the student points out.
"I believe in learning. Ultimately, that's what it's all about."
"Yeah, they're slates. You've used them, correct?"
"But this is a pencil classroom. We have paper. What are we doing with individual slates?"
I explain to my students that there are times when students will use paper and times for pencils and times for slates.
"But slates are so old school!" the student explains.
"True, but so is the human voice. Don't we still discuss things in class?"
"I thought you believed in the twentieth century classroom?" the student points out.
"I believe in learning. Ultimately, that's what it's all about."
show and tell
I know that I teach older students and therefore Show and Tell seems a bit like child's play. However, I allowed my students to choose one item and then use our snazzy new set of pencils to sketch the item and describe each one in a few paragraphs. Students took home the paper and pencils, finished the activity and then brought the item into class.
At first, students were reluctant to talk about the items they had brought. In kindergarten, the children nearly bludgeon one another to death with their swaying hands and "ooh, ooh, ohh, pick me." Yet, here I ran into a wall of apathy.
"Why do we have to present if we can just publish this to our plogs and read about it?" a girl asks.
So, I begin with my item. I share the red rock from the western frontier where I was born. I talk about how I kept it as a child so that I wouldn't forget it when we moved back to the flat, dull land of Kansas. I mentioned what the land represented, how I had been shaped by the sense of the wild freedom out west and why I get depressed in this urban enclave when the smoke stacks and the gray terrain makes me feel trapped.
This opens the door for the students. A boy shares a deck of cards that he used when his dad was in the hospital and since they had little in common to talk about, the cards became another language for them to speak. A girl shares a stack of recipes her grandmother wrote out with the note, "This is my legacy. Don't lose it. I know you've committed this to your mind. I know you will modify these meals to make them your own. But if you ever feel yourself pulled to far by the city, look back at these recipes."
When it's all over, a student says, "Why can't all school be show and tell?"
It has me thinking that maybe he's right. What if it was always this personal? Or at least, what if there was always a personal element that they could hold onto in each subject? And what if, instead of "judge and label," the model was "show and tell?" What if the goal was to demonstrate their knowledge with a tangible item that they could show the world and talk about in a one-on-one conversation.
The beauty of pencils and paper is that it's permanent. Sort of. At least more permanent than a slate. It's portable, too. Kids can publish on plogs and write on shared documents. What this means is that the potential for a classroom based upon show and tell becomes more feasible.
Pencils, Progress and Perfection
Pencils often lie, erasing mistakes in the gray matter of memory, turning stories, once etched in ink, into new shades of half-truths. Pencils promise perfection. Keep erasing the mistakes and slowly we evolve (or is it "descend with modification?") into something stronger and more efficient. The word "efficient" is, in itself, deceptively inefficient with vowels and double letters reminding even the most ardent linguist that form sometimes trips up function.
I yelled at a student today after he told me to "fuck off." For the record, I don't think he literally wanted me to fuck off. He just wanted to win an imaginary battle he was having with me or with the system or with whatever the Universe throws at a twelve year old enough to cause an unprovoked "fuck you."
I didn't "raise my voice." I screamed. Red faced, eyes bulging, monster in the classroom. I scared him. I scared the classmates.I scared myself. When it was over I cried. I think my crying scared him even worse. Then I apologized. I think the apology was the scariest part. I get the sense he wants to believe that grown-ups aren't as vulnerable as this.
Pencils promise perfection, but as long as I'm around, imperfection abounds. If I were a sentence, I'd be a past progressive turned imperfect tense. Always imperfect. Sometimes tense. Pencils provide a mythology that the education factory can turn out a series of codified best practices and with just the right amount of training, we'll never screw up again.
This evening, my daughter, now three, threw a temper tantrum when I tucked her doll in wrong. I tried to comfort her, but she kicked me in the stomach and slapped my face. I cried like a baby, feeling broken down by a broken world. She stopped me and said, "It's okay, daddy. It's okay." I'm supposed to be strong here and prove that I'm her protector and here I am holding a child who gets angry for no particular reason and I cannot help her. "I love you even when you cry," she says.
That's always the right answer. Not much is permanent anymore, but I'll etch that one in India ink.
That's always the right answer. Not much is permanent anymore, but I'll etch that one in India ink.
"I love you even when you're angry," I answer.
I go to bed tired, but I'm not sleepy, so I light the gas lamp and pull out the paper. Edison is promising to replace teachers with motion pictures and phonographs. At some point, we'll have no purpose. A lesson is much more efficient when produced by a corporation. Some day learning will be customized to every student and teachers will be obsolete. Gray films, gray lines, gray matter expanding with the march of industry - a concrete tabula rasa etched with steel. Either embrace the machine or become the machine. And I'm too tired and yet too resilient to do either.
I am not a Teacher of the Year. I am not an award-winning mega-star. I will not have my picture on the gray print newspaper or star in a monochromatic motion picture. But I'll be here, in my classroom, vulnerable and broken and ready to cry and apologize and forgive. I can't offer progress. I can't offer perfection. But I can offer myself, inefficient, sometimes even ineffective, but always real.
a pencil native story
Once upon a time, there was a group of pencil pioneers who pushed their way into the Slate Land and conquered it in the name of education. All was well for the Pencil People, who changed the name from Slate Land to the rather uncreative Pencil Land. In fact, they grew rather giddy over the prospects of raising Pencil Natives in this brave new world they had created.
So, they decided it wasn't important to show a kid how to use an eraser or use blending and shading. In fact, it wouldn't be important that they learned how to write at all, because being a native automatically made one a perfect citizen immersed in the culture.
The Pencil Natives wandered aimlessly, never knowing how to use the tools of their own culture. Some teachers pointed this out and wondered if these children had actually been born in Pencil Land at all. They missed the reality that the Pencil Natives were comfortable with pencils and had, indeed, internalized the value system of a Graphite Globe. They were creating a world that was ambiguous, confusing, gray. They were erasing any remnants of history and replacing it with every-changing, bite-sized information.
Others said that the old folks were simply clueless and that they should delight in the fact that the Pencil Natives spent their days making paper gliders and paper balls and playing Hang Man instead of writing poetry. After all, this was their world and we should learn from them. We should let them be our mentors and tutors and guides, because they knew more about pencils than the Pioneer Generation.
The two sized polarized the issue into a binary reality that missed the nuances of the argument. Instead of asking, "How do we help Pencils Natives make sense out of a graphite globe?" or "How do we get Natives to criticize the tools they use and use the tools they criticize?" they focussed on the question of, "Why aren't they getting it without our help?" Instead of asking, "What does citizenship mean and how can pencils be used to sharpen critical thinking?" the adults obsessed for hours about whether or not pencils were luring in creepy outsiders.
So, the Pencil Natives grew up with the dual reputations of Saviors of the Graphite Globe and Dumbest Generation Ever and all the while they secretly yearned just to be kids with pencils, trying to make sense out of their world and their place within it.
So, they decided it wasn't important to show a kid how to use an eraser or use blending and shading. In fact, it wouldn't be important that they learned how to write at all, because being a native automatically made one a perfect citizen immersed in the culture.
The Pencil Natives wandered aimlessly, never knowing how to use the tools of their own culture. Some teachers pointed this out and wondered if these children had actually been born in Pencil Land at all. They missed the reality that the Pencil Natives were comfortable with pencils and had, indeed, internalized the value system of a Graphite Globe. They were creating a world that was ambiguous, confusing, gray. They were erasing any remnants of history and replacing it with every-changing, bite-sized information.
Others said that the old folks were simply clueless and that they should delight in the fact that the Pencil Natives spent their days making paper gliders and paper balls and playing Hang Man instead of writing poetry. After all, this was their world and we should learn from them. We should let them be our mentors and tutors and guides, because they knew more about pencils than the Pioneer Generation.
The two sized polarized the issue into a binary reality that missed the nuances of the argument. Instead of asking, "How do we help Pencils Natives make sense out of a graphite globe?" or "How do we get Natives to criticize the tools they use and use the tools they criticize?" they focussed on the question of, "Why aren't they getting it without our help?" Instead of asking, "What does citizenship mean and how can pencils be used to sharpen critical thinking?" the adults obsessed for hours about whether or not pencils were luring in creepy outsiders.
So, the Pencil Natives grew up with the dual reputations of Saviors of the Graphite Globe and Dumbest Generation Ever and all the while they secretly yearned just to be kids with pencils, trying to make sense out of their world and their place within it.
visitors
Often times visitors show up and ask about the pencils. "How do you keep them so sharp?" or "How do they remain such a bright yellow?" or even "Do they have an eraser capacity?"
They obsessively focus on the texture of the paper or the gloss on the shiny pencils and they miss the beauty that takes place within the seven walls (as a new initiative, our district is trying out hexagon-based learning and has spent money not on raising teacher pay but in creating classrooms that have different spatial features to help ensure creative thinking).
I get used to the pencil talk and have memorized a mantra that involves a smile and a gentle push toward pedagogy. This time, however, a visitor walks in and moves past the pencils. "Show us the plog. Let us see what students are doing." It moves into a discussion about the math problem they had recently finished that had actually involved slates (yes, I still use them).
As the class period progresses, they seem interested mostly in student learning. The pencils and the paper are merely a secondary factor. This gives me hope for pencil integration. Perhaps in another century pencil and paper will be such a normal phenomenon that visitors won't be impressed with the medium but with the way students manipulate it to create their own learning.
They obsessively focus on the texture of the paper or the gloss on the shiny pencils and they miss the beauty that takes place within the seven walls (as a new initiative, our district is trying out hexagon-based learning and has spent money not on raising teacher pay but in creating classrooms that have different spatial features to help ensure creative thinking).
I get used to the pencil talk and have memorized a mantra that involves a smile and a gentle push toward pedagogy. This time, however, a visitor walks in and moves past the pencils. "Show us the plog. Let us see what students are doing." It moves into a discussion about the math problem they had recently finished that had actually involved slates (yes, I still use them).
As the class period progresses, they seem interested mostly in student learning. The pencils and the paper are merely a secondary factor. This gives me hope for pencil integration. Perhaps in another century pencil and paper will be such a normal phenomenon that visitors won't be impressed with the medium but with the way students manipulate it to create their own learning.
meat the teacher fiasco
It's five o'clock and Meat the Teacher night is beginning. The crowd is extra large due to the issues with an error in homophones (or homonyms - I can't always keep them straight), assuming that the teachers were putting on a barbecue, which would be cool because nothing builds community like the collective bonds of setting animal flesh on an open flame and then digging into the carcass while talking about the weather.
A man pulls me aside and introduces me to his son. "You'll like his class, Josiah."
He then whispers to me, "He's a Graphite Geek. Plays Hang Man and other violent paper games non-stop. He loves pencils. I'm guessing he'll love your class."
I whisper back, "I hope he likes learning, because we don't really play Hang Man in my class."
I sigh, realizing that this will be another year of reminding students at the beginning that the pencils are tools, not toys. It's not that we won't have fun. It's just that the fun won't revolve around playing simple games or throwing paper balls at one another.
The principal strolls into my room. "How did speller check not catch that?" he asks.
"It's not misspelled. It's misused."
"What's the point of technology if it's going to fail on you?" he asks.
"Yeah, it can be unpredictable."
"Must be a glitch," he adds.
The dictionary didn't fail him. The failure was human. Technology is predictable and flawless, making mistakes only when programmed improperly. The beauty of humanity is that we aren't predictable, because as hard as the district office tries, we can't be programmed. It's why we can be creative. It's why we have stories. We're not mechanical. Nothing is clockwork.
The principal humbly faces the consequences by running across the street to the meat market. Gertrude rounds up a few parents bail him out and spread the news that it's a "bring your own meat" barbecue. (It's that rare moment when a micromanager saves the day) Around six thirty we're all eating. A pick-up game of baseball has started among the parents and the kids, losing interest, have started their own game in the street.
I end up playing soccer with a few of my students. It strikes me that this is how it should always start, not with lectures and rules and procedures, but by playing together. None of us say anything, but they are seeing who I am as a person so that they can understand who I am as a teacher.
I end up playing soccer with a few of my students. It strikes me that this is how it should always start, not with lectures and rules and procedures, but by playing together. None of us say anything, but they are seeing who I am as a person so that they can understand who I am as a teacher.
We've gone from an awkward "meet and greet" to an all-out carnival - united by the shared celebration of learning and the shared experience of burning animal flesh. Perhaps this is how every school year should start.
Help on a Subtitle
I'm going with Pencil Me In for the title, but I'm not sure what the subtitle should be. Here are a few options:
- Pencil Me In: Pencils, Pedagogy and Parody
- Pencil Me In: A 19th Century Allegory of Educational Technology
- Pencil Me In: Adventures in Pencil Integration
I'd love your feedback.
Does every teacher need to plog?
I'm meeting with Paul the Preindustrial Poet. He has this worn-out notebook with him - the kind that existed before tabs and folders. He writes lines of poetry, not in any sequential order, but wherever he finds space. Sometimes he'll fill the blank space with an entire short story. One entire page is a series of 140 character short stories he wrote just to prove to me that one can, in fact, tell a narrative on a pen pal network.
Paul tried to write a plog at one time, because he bought into the lie that every good teacher needs to write a plog. It was too structured for him and too public as well. "Look, I would never say that every teacher needs to write poetry or that every teacher needs to write for Hearst. The reality is that different people find a medium that works for them."
Mr. Brown doesn't plog, either. Or at least, he doesn't plog about school. He writes mostly about fantasy and baseball and his fantasies of running a baseball team. He says that in another century he might be able to find a like-minded group of people who would participate in a make-believe league where they would live vicariously through a sport that allows people to live vicariously through athletes. Mr. Brown won't go on the pen pal networks. It's just not his thing.
My wife is social. Very social. She knows everyone in the neighborhood. She has a whole social network within walking distance of our front porch. (She thinks its sacrilege that I don't call it a "stoop.") However, she has no desire to plog or to participate in the pen pal networks. She's a teacher. Not formally, but in conversation, in life, in her actions and in her questions. She plans to home school the kids when they aren't at school (we'll do both home school and public school, saving most of the home-schooling for weekends and summers).
Some of the best teachers I know are not pencil geeks. They have no desire to write a plog or go on a pen pal network or use social book marking. What makes them great is their passion for the subject, their love for their students and the way they combine these in practical, tangible ways. If a plog is part of the deal, it's great. We all get to learn from them. If not, that's okay.
If the district made it mandatory for me to plog, I would quit plogging. I would probably plagiarize or find passive-agressive ways to get back at the power elite. I would see myself as a pencil pusher and my plog as mere paperwork. But alas, I can plog when I want and it isn't tied up with my self-concept as a teacher.
Paul tried to write a plog at one time, because he bought into the lie that every good teacher needs to write a plog. It was too structured for him and too public as well. "Look, I would never say that every teacher needs to write poetry or that every teacher needs to write for Hearst. The reality is that different people find a medium that works for them."
Mr. Brown doesn't plog, either. Or at least, he doesn't plog about school. He writes mostly about fantasy and baseball and his fantasies of running a baseball team. He says that in another century he might be able to find a like-minded group of people who would participate in a make-believe league where they would live vicariously through a sport that allows people to live vicariously through athletes. Mr. Brown won't go on the pen pal networks. It's just not his thing.
My wife is social. Very social. She knows everyone in the neighborhood. She has a whole social network within walking distance of our front porch. (She thinks its sacrilege that I don't call it a "stoop.") However, she has no desire to plog or to participate in the pen pal networks. She's a teacher. Not formally, but in conversation, in life, in her actions and in her questions. She plans to home school the kids when they aren't at school (we'll do both home school and public school, saving most of the home-schooling for weekends and summers).
Some of the best teachers I know are not pencil geeks. They have no desire to write a plog or go on a pen pal network or use social book marking. What makes them great is their passion for the subject, their love for their students and the way they combine these in practical, tangible ways. If a plog is part of the deal, it's great. We all get to learn from them. If not, that's okay.
If the district made it mandatory for me to plog, I would quit plogging. I would probably plagiarize or find passive-agressive ways to get back at the power elite. I would see myself as a pencil pusher and my plog as mere paperwork. But alas, I can plog when I want and it isn't tied up with my self-concept as a teacher.
100 SUPER-AMAZING WAYS TO USE PENCILS IN YOUR CLASSROOM
Somebody told me that if I want to be popular, productive and prone to alliteration, I need to make lists and post them on the pen pal networks. So here goes my first list titled 100 SUPER-AMAZING WAYS TO USE PENCILS IN YOUR CLASSROOM. (Not sure why I had to add that in the body if it's in the title, but there it is)
- Have students draw
- Have students design buildings
- Have students create maps
- Have students solve algebraic expressions
- Have students do geometery and other math stuff
- Have students fill out worksheets and convince them that the goal is to complete a worksheet and to work hard rather than learn
- Have students write poetry
- Have students write letters to people in power who will have to hire a secretary who will pretend to care
- Have students write persuasive essays
- Have students write expository essays
- Have students write functional texts
- Have students write narratives
- Have students make comic books in "gray scale" and then claim that it's a "graphic novel" so that it sounds more sophisticated
- Have students write a funeral dirge
- Have students write dirty limericks and blame them on their peers
Okay, I'm out of ideas. Maybe I'll just stick to telling stories.
They're Still Pencil Natives
As my school shifts toward one-to-one pencil to student ratio, a group of teachers come to me with their concerns about a lack of decent pencil skills. I hadn't predicted this. Students are snapping pencils and saying they just don't know how to use them. Others have turned papers into projectiles. Still others have turned to playing violent games such as Hang Man.
"I had two students forget to save their documents," a teacher mentions.
"Could that be an issue of their age rather than a pencil skill? I mean, a hundred years from now we'll probably still have students who forget to put their names on their papers." I ask.
"Another one couldn't figure out how to put his documents in a folder. I have others who just leave every document on the desk top. Aren't they supposed to be Pencil Natives?"
"I heard that's just a myth," another teacher adds. "Turns out the 'Pencil Native' generation isn't all that technologically savvy at all. It's just hype created by pencil pushers hell bent on ruining slate-based learning." I know the study she's referring to and it seems to prove little more than what I already experience: students still have gaps in their ability to use pencils in meaningful ways.
The gripe fest continues until I ask the teacher, "What is their native language?"
"English," a teacher adds. "Some of them Italian and German, but mostly English."
"And do you still have to teach them grammar and spelling?"
"Yeah."
"You don't say? You mean they don't pop out of the womb diagramming sentences?"
"No, but . . ."
"And what is their native country?"
"Most of them are from here."
"Do we still teach civics? I mean, if they are American, they should know all about democracy and the bicameral legislature and the writ of habeas corpus."
"Oh no, we still have to teach them that."
"Could it be that one's status as a native has more to do with comfort, culture and values and less to do with skills? When I look at my students, they are comfortable with pencils. They identity with the modernist, sketchy-gray worldview. They understand conceptually the notion of portable information via the telegraph and telephone. It doesn't mean they are information engineers with perfect penmanship, however."
Natives still need to learn the language. They need to learn to think critically and become better citizens. Pointing out their lack of skills doesn't take away their social context or generational identity. Instead, it suggests what we already know: that we need to teach students to think deeply about the tools they use and like any good citizen, I want them to think about how tools are shaping their reality, their relationships and their beliefs about love and truth. I want them to criticize their pencil nation and determine when it is the right time to abandon the values of their techno world and recover what is buried in the earth under the industrial carpet of their factory school.
"I had two students forget to save their documents," a teacher mentions.
"Could that be an issue of their age rather than a pencil skill? I mean, a hundred years from now we'll probably still have students who forget to put their names on their papers." I ask.
"Another one couldn't figure out how to put his documents in a folder. I have others who just leave every document on the desk top. Aren't they supposed to be Pencil Natives?"
"I heard that's just a myth," another teacher adds. "Turns out the 'Pencil Native' generation isn't all that technologically savvy at all. It's just hype created by pencil pushers hell bent on ruining slate-based learning." I know the study she's referring to and it seems to prove little more than what I already experience: students still have gaps in their ability to use pencils in meaningful ways.
The gripe fest continues until I ask the teacher, "What is their native language?"
"English," a teacher adds. "Some of them Italian and German, but mostly English."
"And do you still have to teach them grammar and spelling?"
"Yeah."
"You don't say? You mean they don't pop out of the womb diagramming sentences?"
"No, but . . ."
"And what is their native country?"
"Most of them are from here."
"Do we still teach civics? I mean, if they are American, they should know all about democracy and the bicameral legislature and the writ of habeas corpus."
"Oh no, we still have to teach them that."
"Could it be that one's status as a native has more to do with comfort, culture and values and less to do with skills? When I look at my students, they are comfortable with pencils. They identity with the modernist, sketchy-gray worldview. They understand conceptually the notion of portable information via the telegraph and telephone. It doesn't mean they are information engineers with perfect penmanship, however."
Natives still need to learn the language. They need to learn to think critically and become better citizens. Pointing out their lack of skills doesn't take away their social context or generational identity. Instead, it suggests what we already know: that we need to teach students to think deeply about the tools they use and like any good citizen, I want them to think about how tools are shaping their reality, their relationships and their beliefs about love and truth. I want them to criticize their pencil nation and determine when it is the right time to abandon the values of their techno world and recover what is buried in the earth under the industrial carpet of their factory school.
target date
I plan to release Pencil Me In, a book based upon this blog, on September 1, 2010. The book will have much more of a long-lasting narrative structure and will also span 3 years instead of sticking with just 1897. It's been a confusing, fun and exciting process so far. My goal is to have the book ready on September 1st as an eBook, physical book and MP3 download.
I've enjoyed the process of working with a story arc. It's helped me to think through my own journey of educational technology as well. One area of weakness for me is revising. If you are interesting in fixing grammar, spelling and syntax mistakes, please e-mail me at socialvoice@gmail.com or send me a message on twitter @johntspencer. I would love some help in this area.
So if you like this blog, spread the news about the book. I have no PR and I know that word of mouth is what will make this thing work.
I've enjoyed the process of working with a story arc. It's helped me to think through my own journey of educational technology as well. One area of weakness for me is revising. If you are interesting in fixing grammar, spelling and syntax mistakes, please e-mail me at socialvoice@gmail.com or send me a message on twitter @johntspencer. I would love some help in this area.
So if you like this blog, spread the news about the book. I have no PR and I know that word of mouth is what will make this thing work.
the enemy isn't a person
I'm sitting on the front porch, trying to construct a decent plog. My hand wanders toward doodling and I end up sketching fictional characters. I'm yearning for human conversation when my wife comes home and mentions, "We met a wonderful lady at the park. I just felt like I had this connection with her."
"Why is that?"
"I had to correct your daughter," she says, knowing that it irritates me when she says "your" to describe the moments our daughter gets into trouble. Why am I the rebel?
"She had real empathy when I talked about the difficulty involved in having to discipline. It turns out one of her sons is special needs and she feels a stronger sense of guilt every time she gets angry. We talked about authority and authenticity. It was strange to have this great conversation with a total stranger."
"I know what you mean," I say. Truth is I'm more introverted and I doubt that I would ever speak to a stranger in the park.
"It turns out that she works at your school. Her name is Eunice, I think."
"Really tall, red hair?"
"Nope. It might be Mildred. Do you have a Mildred?"
"With the big mole on her nose?"
"No, maybe it's not Mildred. I know, it's Gertrude."
"You mean Gertrude the Enemy of All Things Tom Johnson Wants to Accompilish?"
"That's her?"
"Yep."
"But she seemed so nice. She even talked about how hard it is to do her job when there's so much pressure from above to get the teachers on the same track."
It has me thinking about enemies. Perhaps my wife is right. Gertrude at the Park might be a different person than Gertrude the Ruiner of Plans. Or perhaps she is he same person, but just complicated. Maybe she's scared. Maybe she's stressed by dealing with a special needs kid. Maybe she's human after all.
Perhaps Gertrude is not the enemy of pencil-based innovation. Perhaps the true enemy is an ideology of articiality. Or maybe the enemy is a much more visceral fear - a fear that our students will be behind on the global pissing contest. Or maybe it's a system and a structure that churns out robotic students prepared for the factories. Whatever the enemy is, I'm becoming convinced that it is not an individual or a person. In fact, it is the opposite. The enemy isn't human. The enemy is a process of dehumanization.
blocking phonographs
As I walked into my classroom with the brand-new phonograph, a man from the district stopped me. "Yeah, um, this is blocked. Sorry dude, but you can't have your students use the phonograph."
"Why is that?"
"Well, it could have dirty words. After all, these are Victorian Times. Who wants to risk a lawsuit?"
"I see your point, but students could also speak a dirty word as well. So, I don't really see why a change in the medium is all that different."
His boss walks up to me. "It's not about that. It's about our limited capacity for music. See, the school band will be using this hall way and they need it for their classroom. It's just not that wide. We can't fit all the instruments and fit a phonograph. So, with limited band-width, we have to either block the phonograph or slow everybody down."
"Why can't we just use a different hallway or perhaps build a new one?" I ask.
"I don't know. I'm just the IT guy. I'm an Instrument Technician. If you have issue with this, talk to the district."
So, I found a way to sneak the phonograph in through the back door. I just think it's sad that we have to find back door methods of accessing tools that will be useful for learning.
"Why is that?"
"Well, it could have dirty words. After all, these are Victorian Times. Who wants to risk a lawsuit?"
"I see your point, but students could also speak a dirty word as well. So, I don't really see why a change in the medium is all that different."
His boss walks up to me. "It's not about that. It's about our limited capacity for music. See, the school band will be using this hall way and they need it for their classroom. It's just not that wide. We can't fit all the instruments and fit a phonograph. So, with limited band-width, we have to either block the phonograph or slow everybody down."
"Why can't we just use a different hallway or perhaps build a new one?" I ask.
"I don't know. I'm just the IT guy. I'm an Instrument Technician. If you have issue with this, talk to the district."
So, I found a way to sneak the phonograph in through the back door. I just think it's sad that we have to find back door methods of accessing tools that will be useful for learning.
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