Progress

Upon reflection I realize it was an eerie yet pleasant thing I encountered last weekend. Standing outside of what used to be an “all white” establishment, in front of what used to be part of the Indian empire, in what up until just months ago was seemingly in the clenched fists of military rule, I was on the phone busied with trying to organize taxis and directions for friends looking to meet for drinks. While on the phone, a young boy approached my friend beside me—my friend clearly the more approachable of us. This boy was posted with post cards outside The Strand hotel in Yangon. He and my friend shared a conversation while I coordinated and yapped about this and that. The boy left.

I hung up the phone and looked to my friend.

“What’d you guys talk about?” I asked.

“Oh, that was Rav. He’s going to run this ship.”

“Excuse me?”

“I asked him how he got so good at English, and he said his grandma taught him. And then I asked him what he wanted to do when he grew up, and he said that he wanted to be the captain of a ship.”

“So that’s how he’s going to run this ship…”

“Exactly. Then, I asked him ‘how many post cards do I need to buy in order for you to go home for the night?’--he said six.” Showing me the post cards, “Want one?”

“I’ll take the reclining Buddha.”

My wife is some sort of Southeast Asian expert. While I can read the anecdotal newspaper articles about the region, she can create the reports with the facts that experts like to think they can refer to. However, in my utter naiveté, I was blown away by the resourcefulness I saw in the people of Yangon. It was as if the place had been denied the materials and technology that the US has been unwittingly consuming for the last fifty years. Yet, the place bustled with activity and ingenuity. To have seemingly 95 percent of cars in fine working condition, despite the fact that they were all older than me was marveling. There’s something palpable about the wits that the people of Myanmar have about them. This excites me. I hope and trust the future of this country harnesses the light its individual people already behold.

This week I was buzzing with excitement about the Finnish system, my rereading of Dewey’s School and Society, and a video an elementary classmate sent me featuring Chris Kaman because he said it made him think of me (for more on Kaman see his LA Times article).

I, by most people’s standards, was a horrible student. I can actually recall a number of occasions where my teachers—mind you, I went to a seemingly pious private Christian school—where my teachers audibly called me a “smart ass.” I think this title and their embracement of it were an integral part of my school agenda. However, upon further recollection, I have come to realize the experiential roots of both my struggles and successes in education.

I grew up a complete momma’s boy. And, fortunately for me, my mother was brilliant. And, very much unlike me, she was one of the most humble people to ever grace this earth. I clung, knowingly or not, to her warm and giving spirit. From a very early age my mother taught me how to cook, how to garden, how to sew, how to play the piano, sing, fish, walk knowingly through a woods, and serve others. These were all naturally a part of her weekly routine, so they naturally became a part of mine. When it came to attending school full-time, I really struggled behaviorally. Recess--The one thing I longed for most, was stripped from me on a near daily basis. My mother was perplexed. The hyper-active smart-ass my teachers knew was nothing like the much more subdued child she knew at home. 

It went on this way until I was twelve. It was then that my mother died, and I instantaneously became a better student. Dewey implies that often for the educator, “The attitude of listening means, comparatively speaking, passivity, absorption; that there are certain ready-made materials which are there, which have been prepared by the school superintendent, the board, the teacher, and of which the child is to take in as much as possible in the least possible time.” I became a listener. I was no longer disruptive. In fact, I didn’t even talk and pulled high marks. What more could one want in a child?

For me, maybe not for my teachers, things eventually got better. I began to find myself in music, sports, and theater—all of which focused on contributions and collective ones at that. I firmly believe that our students need to be much more than recipients; they need to be interpreters and most importantly contributors. Recipients, interpreters, and contributors of human progress of human culture. This is what drew me to the tangible fruits of theater, sport, and music.

So, How does this connect to schools as being community based or embryonic? Well, as Myanmar and all countries seek progress, education must be an integrated system which unites rather than disjoins.

Uniting only happens when there’s cause to do so. And, if the rumblings about the state of our current system aren’t enough to persuade one into action, let us appeal to one’s longing for experiences, for learning. I think this is the intrigue of say, the green school initiative, such as that which is presented by Hardy in his green school dream. We desire this sort of connection, and not simply with nature but certainly via experiential learning.

As a teacher of literature, I believe experience is incredibly important. And, though reading is (in part) a secondary experience--it teaches, and at its best it is not didactic but expository, emulating and representing the breadth and depth of human experience.

Take poetry for example. Even the word “poetry” prompts audible sighs to come from the very fibers of my students’ beings. Most are afraid to even comment on a poem. Some frantically peruse footnotes or even attempt to whip out their phones to find a simple commentary so they have something intelligent to say—only intelligence here comes not from within but from some hackneyed editorial efforts. Few take ownership of what they read. And rarely are students taken places--driven by impulse, prompted by feeling. A community would be a safe space for sharing and exploring poetry. Refined commentaries, a now necessary part of my academic field, will only be authentic when most “realize his/her instinct and respond to the poem [make the box], there is plenty of opportunity to gain discipline and perseverance, to exercise effort in overcoming obstacles, and to attain as well a great deal of information” (Dewey, School and Society, p. 55).

Schools, in my opinion, must not be considered as being like communities; they need to be communities. And sure communities necessitate a sort of decorum or even discipline, but within the best communities, the most meaningful ones, discipline does not serve as an indicator of success but rather as a natural part of human flourishing. This is the sort of flourishing I experienced at home and outside with my mom but not in school--the sort of experience Aleksi and Nana Gustafsson’s  students have in Finland.

In A conversation on Waiting for Superman, Linda Darling-Hammond (2010) states that Finland in addition to putting tremendous effort in teachers: two to three years of graduate level education, 15-20 hours of collaboration per week, and higher pay—allows for students to come to school fed, housed, and healthy. This adds to the article linked above which provides that Finland doesn’t even spend as much as the states per pupil. I am, however, almost certain that the country does a better job of supporting communities in ways outside of the communities in schools than our country does, which I think is a rather key component to our societal puzzle. Because, when we in (Dewey’s referenced) isolation fail to treat poverty, to address communities holistically, we then fail to achieve progress for our communities and its individuals.   

With regard to differentiation, I must admit I have had my struggles. Though, I think they are largely the result of a sort of self-preservation. But, I find myself wondering: How different is this whole thing? Is it simply yet another part of the jargoned initiatives championed by the increasingly contradicting field of education? And, how feasible is all of this? Such questions come to mind particularly when I think of my post where I taught six classes--four of which were different with each consisting of over 40 students in an ethnically and experientially diverse urban school setting with little funding and no additional support. Do this for 250 students? Give me a break. But, perhaps that’s what summer is for and I’m simply being selfish. After all, I want to give these students my best, and proponents of differentiation insist that it’s already what happens with good teaching.

I’m grateful that UV has Tomlinson and Hirsch, both of whom are referenced in Schumer’s (2009) piece, “One Classroom, Many Minds; A Paddle for the Mainstream.” I can only imagine their lounge being like almost every English department I’ve taught in—divided.

Hirsch maintains ''Bad things are said about whole-class instruction, but it is by far the most effective mode of reaching 20 kids,” while Tomlinson, has been praised for her mixed bag approach.

Though, speaking of bags, I’m a bit of a story teller and this has included a number of Sunday school lessons or campfire stories. And, I have found that if one puts the key elements of a story in a bag, wonder and curiosity ensues. Slowly introducing a variety of things from a bag in order to hold attention, give variety, and cement meaning. We’ve also probably all seen what handing out all the tools at once does in a kindy classroom. Eager children turn violent, fighting over the scissors, throwing the wrong colored paper willy-nilly, and drawing on their mates. But, if creativity is facilitated, and things are discussed openly with students calling the shots, wonderful things happen. This, in my opinion plays to the strengths of differentiation.  We instructors pull from our bag multiple ways of meaning-making and apply them with regard to a topic, concept, or text only to synthesize while revisiting the process and steps along the way for our more grandiose creations, or content areas, or even our interdisciplinary aims.

Furthermore, if building upon the work of the likes of Khan (2011) is an option, then count me in. In fact, my school is just looking at doing flipped classrooms. And, while both differentiated and flipped methods seems overwhelming from a preparation standpoint--especially since I presently face teaching six sections and four different classes--I need not reinvented everything. Content is mediated by educators, experts, such as that which is found in iTunes U, engaging resources are becoming increasingly more popular and much of this stuff is free.

Furthermore, video and audio lectures bring a polished, uninterrupted version of that which often is disjoint and interrupted in the classroom. Furthermore, one has a control over his/her individual learning pace. Class time can now be used for questions, discussion, and application of content, and especially much needed help with assignments. The sort of things teachers always wish they had more time for but never get around to doing. Kahn (2011) provides that such a mode of instruction is what ultimately leads to mastery of content. Though, in many ways this model is very much dependent upon a learning atmosphere outside of school, one which is also equipped with high-end technology. For many of our youth, this is not yet an option.

Ultimately, even though I’ve expressed looming apprehensions, I think that differentiated instruction is the right thing to do. Schumer (2009) provides that in districts which use differentiated instruction, the consensus seems to be that it is not a cure-all and takes more training than advocates suggest, but the teachers seem to like it. They say that good teachers already teach this way intuitively, and the technique provides a structure. Also, it's uncontroversial at the local level because it avoids confrontations about who is smart and who is not—something which advocates for tracking must consistently address. In addition, Oakes (1985) maintains that "traditions dictate, for the most part, the ways in which schooling is organized and conducted." Many schools are still tracked and this doesn’t seem to be the best option.

Contrary to the thoughts and opinions of many ambitious, affluent and well-intentioned parents, I do not believe weaseling one’s already privileged three-year-old into a GT school is the aim of Mann’s great and equalizing vision. It is not a communal way of operating in the world; it’s an elitist way. I will say, however, that this notion is still tricky for me to stand behind because I’ve taught in a highly successful urban magnet school for GT students, one where the education afforded was excellent despite operating in and amongst a failing system. When I was there, the students achieved the second highest scores in the state of Michigan, and to be honest, my gut tells me that had they gone to the other district schools many wouldn’t have stood a chance socially or even academically while I suspect the majority of those who could have fit in to the social mainstream would have reverted to the status quo of the district’s underachieving schools.

Sir Ken Robinson (TED 2006) says about education that:“It’s one of those things that runs deep with people…like religion.” We need to take such matters seriously and sincerely. If we don’t want to see Bertie Counties (Pilloton, 2010) and Highland Parks, we must reevaluate the ways in which we structure schools. And, I think differentiation should be used consistently in our schools as an equalizing force.

Where Failure Leaves Us

I wholeheartedly believe in the premise of Angel L. Harris’s recent publication “Kids Don't Want to Fail.” [i] I mean, honestly?  Who does want to fail?

Within Tough’s (2011) “What if the Secret to Success Is Failure?” a particular reformer from a KIPP school works with an interesting yet commonly held premise: Students need the changing. This is not altogether unfamiliar territory for the discourse of most teachers.

“If they could only try harder,” “…do their homework,” or “…focus more.”  

Oddly enough, all I ever hear from the other side, the students, is the converse: “That such and such teacher is completely out of touch.”  This particular reformer, however, maintains that we need to foster a sense of grit in our students, a sort of performance based model which maintains we need to focus on building character that leads to success rather than your typical “feel good” sort of character traits. A KIPP colleague supports this notion in that for students who are generally from minority and/lower socio-economic backgrounds, the performance based model demystifies what it takes to be successful whereas others already walk in the shadows of success, which seemingly affords the luxury of striving for niceties (Tough, 2011).

I don’t think I dare argue that teachers should avoid preparing their students to have a certain degree of tenacity, but I do think that students aren’t the only ones in need of changing--not to say that those at KIPP are only bent on changing students. I’d simply like to highlight that there’s much more to understanding student success and failure, as Childress (2006) maintains, than simply hardening our students for battle.

Palmer (1998) believes that “The way we diagnose our students' condition will determine the kind of remedy we offer." And, while I believe, like Randolph from Riverdale Country School , that failure is a necessary part of our education, we also must carefully consider the ways in which we speak about failure. Ultimately, the ways in which we see and perceive our students profoundly impacts the ways in which we teach them.

Furthermore, Palmer (1998) seems to express that fear guides and defines the interactions of teachers and students alike, rendering us incapable of reform. Fear is then the source of the failings in school, and the fear in greatest need of confrontation is that which resides in the instructors. Palmer believes, and I tend to agree, that "when we [teachers] deny our own conditions, we resist seeing anything in others that might remind us of who, and how, we really are.”

I, however, believe more strongly that the very structures are the source of our lack of reform, not necessarily our fear of said structures. Because without many structures or fixtures within schools, fear is reduced and, as such, instructors, students, and administrators alike are no longer at loss for agency in a larger, more powerful system.

Of what structures do I speak? Well, Palmer (1998) refers to a sort of disconnectedness and from the onset points to the obvious solutions: “That we are distanced by a grading system that separates teachers from students, by departments that fragment fields of knowledge, by competition that makes students and teachers alike wary of their peers, and by a bureaucracy that puts faculty and administration at odds.”  I think these are the very fixtures which bind us in what Palmer refers to as “fear.” Yet, I would argue such fixtures are the source of said fear. And, in order to make changes we should reduce these structures to our core aims rather than introduce initiative after initiative which only adds to our flawed systems. We could thereby exercise what Childress (2006)  refers to as a "subtractive education."

One example of my frustrations with current fixtures is found in my unstated job description. I, like many in my particular content area stumbled upon my profession (I’m an English teacher) because story and writing bring me great joy. Now, we could even debate the presence of content areas as being a hurtful structure but will refrain in doing so because I’m unfortunately all too loyal to my field to risk inconveniencing my way of teaching and daily validation and consequently my students’ way of knowing. Such evaluation is too much for my ego to take. Yet, drawn to story and the creation/expression of culture or emotion or knowing through writing, I remain a teacher minimized to a formula comprised of the teaching of critical analysis and response through the format of a well-polished commentary or essay. I am no longer a writer or even a lover of stories. I am someone who sucks the lifeblood out of story. Teaching critical reading is often far divorced from the beauty of a captivating narrative. And so, my life is divided, yet it’s the only sort of life I know as an English teacher because it’s been prescribed.

That which is hopelessly compartmentalized, yet that which inevitably, conveniently, and inconveniently bleeds and blends what makes sense into what truly does define and baffle me.  I can’t help but be alienated. I teach namely because I can’t be a writer, but I bleed in that I’m inevitably writing and blend in that I teach writing. And, the structures seem to be the most pointed source of my frustration rather than my fear as Palmer (1998) seemingly suggests.

One who rather darkly expresses similar frustrations in his work as a professor of English is Lionel Basney (2002) in his essay, “Teacher: Eleven Notes.”

The landscape of our failures is not all gloom and doom however. We have much to be hopeful about. And, I think a sense of hopefulness amidst the unavoidable backdrop of our failures is what must propel us towards change. In his evaluation of gaming, Gee (2005) has, in my opinion found the crux of learning, which is something we may build upon. Additionally, Mitra (2011) reveals that mere access to education could give millions a true sense of knowing. And, through his “hole in the wall” inquiry methods he proves that "A teacher that can be replaced by a machine, should be." To me, this tells us that with even small changes to our current structures and fixtures, we may in fact no longer squelch the natural curiosity within the students we teach.

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[i] For more on Harris’s work see my Don't Fail Co-Review on Glogster. His work is an interesting addition and at times direct counter to the comparative cultural, historical, or anthropological work and premises of Ogbu.