Author: Mr. Chase

Things I Know 20 of 365: If I’d “taught” him, I’d have broken him

Imagination is more important than knowledge.

– Albert Einstein

We were playing with outlining today.

Rather than peddle the same kind of linear thinking Mrs. Rupple taught me in 7th grade, I tried a different approach.

“What are some ways you’ve planned your writing that have been successful?”

And then they shared.

“Write these down,” said I, “You might need them when you get stuck.”

The old favorites such as Roman numerals and webs and bullet points were offered up.

They weren’t alone.

One student talked about coming up with a topic, journaling about it and then moving the pieces around until they made sense. Where she sensed weakness, she knew she needed to do research.

Another student picks a topic, starts researching and tags the useful articles in delicious. When tagging, he lists the important points he wants to reference in his paper as bullet points in the notes section of the tag. When it’s time to write, he calls up the tag and has all his notes listed.

Then there was Andre.

He didn’t know it, but Andre was the inspiration for today’s lesson.

Yesterday, as the students were preparing the information they’d uncovered from their research, Andre spoke up.

“Mr. Chase, yo, I don’t do outlining. That’s not how I think.”

“How do you plan your writing?”

“I see it in pictures.”

He explained it to the class today:

  1. Pick a topic. (effects of integration on minorities)
  2. Picture the topic. (historically black towns)
  3. Zoom in on the picture. (citizens of those towns of different classes interacting)
  4. Picture how things change with outside influences. (black citizens with wealth moved closer to white citizens of wealth and separated from their previous communities)
  5. Cut to the effects of the change. (citizens without wealth suffered because the community structure had been compromised)

And that is his process.

It works for him. More to the point, it’s how his brain works for him.

I could never have taught Andre this method.

More frightening, if I’d attempted to teach Andre outlining, my method would have worked against everything his brain was telling him.

“What about when you need to find outside sources to back up your arguments?” asked I.

Easy. He does an image search using the keywords from his topic. When he finds a picture that appears to fit the bill, he goes to the source page and reads the related information.

It’s not how my brain works.

It’s how Andre’s brain works.

It works well.

I’m so glad I asked.

Things I Know 19 of 365: I don’t like to disappoint

I’m not angry. I’m disappointed.

– My Mom (and probably yours)

I disappointed someone today.

The details of the situation aren’t important.

Just know that I let down someone whose esteem I value greatly.

I managed to do it early in the day, too. So, I got to wear it in my stomach and between my shoulder blades for the rest of the day.

I made a mistake, was called on it, owned it and apologized.

My apology was accepted and the day moved on.

The disappointment, that look, is still sitting next to me on the couch right now.

I know I’ll get over it. I know my apology was accepted.

For now, though, we’re sitting here on the couch, disappointment and I.

Here’s what I’ve decided to do.

I’ve decided to learn in this moment.

Rather, re-learn.

To many of my students, my esteem means something. They care what I think. They want me to be proud. Moreover, they don’t want to disappoint me.

That’s not what I re-learned.

What I re-learned was the importance of honoring that rapport, of honoring the role my esteem may hold in their lives.

I can never use it as a weapon or take it for granted or use the fear of losing that esteem a motivator in the classroom.

They will disappoint me.

I will tell them it’s happened.

I will not hold it over their heads.

This was modeled for me today.

I’m fortunate to have such teachers.

Things I Know 18 of 365: I don’t facilitate

Teaching is the greatest act of optimism.

– Colleen Wilcox

If I hear another keynoter say today’s teachers should really think of themselves as facilitators, I might retch.

If another peer in my grad class writes about giving his students the opportunity to learn, I might ask him to step whatever the online equivalent is of outside.

If I have to sit through another inane argument about what constitutes 21st Century Skills, someone’s losing a pinkie.

Let me be clear.

I teach.

You see, I’m a teacher.

While there is an element of facilitation in what I do, I’m not setting up shop in the ballroom of the local Holiday Inn to help my students unlock the power within and encouraging them to buy my book and accompanying keychain on the coffee break.

This is serious work, let’s not side-step it in order to pick up the cross of the semantic argument.

Yes, I’ve seen the inspiring videos telling me “counselor,” “parent,” “coach,” and “listener” are all words for teacher.

No.

“Teacher” pretty much takes care of it.

Yes, it’s a noble profession. I’m proud to do what I do each day. Let’s not cheapen it by pretending the word’s not enough.

What truly is not enough is giving students the opportunity to learn.

Having a school in their neighborhood gives them the opportunity to learn. Being born gave them the opportunity to learn. Stubbing their toes gives them the opportunity to learn.

I give my kids and education and I do it by teaching.

Calling it something else make it sound soft. It makes it somehow less than.

“What do you do?”

“Me? Oh, I give opportunities.”

“What are you Willy Wonka?”

Take two.

“What do you do?”

“I teach.”

“Thank you.”

As much as a lesson will include student choice, it will also include moments where following the instructions means doing work that is mentally uncomfortable. I ask them to do things they do not want to do because I do know more about some things than they do.

I’m not so ridiculous to believe I know more about them or their lives than they do. But, I do know more. My knowledge is of value, and I work to find the best ways to teach it. Their knowledge is valuable, and I work to find the best ways to learn it.

Some people call the best ways “21st Century Skills.”

For a while there, I was all wound up in the whole 21st Century Skills rhetoric. It’s a sexy turn of phrase. Once every hundred years, the global community looks into the future of the next 100 years and divines the skills that will prove most valuable.

I’ll have what she’s having.

When I was in high school, I watched my stepfather and uncles build a house because they wanted to see if they could. They’d never done such a thing before. They read, they researched, they asked around. They tried and errored and tried something new.

The thing is, they did this all in the 20th century.

Wait, there’s more.

If they had attempted to build a house in, say, 1905, some of those skills would have been the same, but some would have been remarkably different.

Same century, different skills.

Mind = Blown

This is all to say those who believe in the importance of teaching our students to ask the right questions and construct the right plans for uncovering the information they need using the tools available today lose more than a little control of the argument when they timestamp what they’re talking about.

“21st Century Skills” offers up a flimsy rhetorical piñata.

“Problem solving” lives in a lockbox even Al Gore would find amazing.

Things I Know 17 of 365: Preaching doesn’t convert

I can’t believe I’m saying this, Mr. Mali,
but I think I’d like to switch sides.

And I want to tell her to do more than just believe it,
but to enjoy it!
That changing your mind is one of the best ways
of finding out whether or not you still have one.
Or even that minds are like parachutes,
that it doesn’t matter what you pack
them with so long as they open
at the right time.
O God, Lilly, I want to say
you make me feel like a teacher,
and who could ask to feel more than that?
I want to say all this but manage only,
Lilly, I am like so impressed with you!

– Taylor Mali, “Like Lilly Like Wilson“

I spend the bulk of my day attempting to draw out, negotiate and refine discussions. It could be between people and people. It could be between people and texts. It could be between people and themselves.

Asking my students to consider their questions and then find answers to those questions affords me multiple moments of mindchange.

Being worth my salt requires me to keep my hand in the game as well. Fortunately, I’m surrounded by colleagues keen on elevating discourse. Each idea runs through the pasta maker of dialogue, elasticizing my thinking.

A few weeks ago, I read this blog post regarding what Lynne Munson believed to be the common flaw between former D.C. schools chief Michelle Rhee and newly minted head of NYC schools Cathie Black.

I took issue with the following:

Topping Black’s list of work she wants to get done: “[R]ethink[ing] the standard model of a classroom so we can teach 21st Century skills in innovative and engaging ways.” 21st century skills is not a curriculum. It is a fad.

I tweeted my discontent. Debbie Schinker asked if I would be commenting. I said I would.

I haven’t yet.

Reading the four comments already posted, I’m not entirely sure how much my contribution would move the conversation. Munson seems fairly comfortable in her rightness.

Mary Worrell summed up my concern best, “Sometimes it’s so hard to even try to break the ice on stuff like that. Then again, maybe we shouldn’t just preach to the choir.”

In moments like these, I think about what I’d hope my students to choose in their best moments, and then I do that.

As enough preaching has happened and I’m genuinely interested in building my understanding, here’s the comment I’ll be posting:

Ben and Lynne,
Who decides the necessary information, and what’s the process there? I see the point about the importance of knowing things. At professional conferences, my ability to reference any number of authors acts as my entrance ticket to conversations. At dinner with new friends, whether or not I’ve seen Mad Men or Dexter – my pop culture fluency – can determine my social stock value. How, though, does one extrapolate those facts necessary for inclusion in curriculum?
If knowing facts can be quickening and enlightening and no real way exists for the teaching of all facts of possible relevance in the lives of our students, does it not seem prudent to help students navigate the structures (formal and informal) for the procurement of facts as needed?
Be certain, I include facts as a component of any conversation I have with my students. I’m able to shore up arguments and illustrate examples of otherwise out-of-reach ideas because of the knowledge I’ve gained. I certainly see the worth of this. Still, I recognize the absolute worthlessness of these facts in situations I’ve not anticipated. So, turn to the scientific method – a key 21st Century Skill – as a model for uncovering the facts my students may need and I can’t provide.
What do you think of the idea that championing the teaching of facts and labeling 21st Century Skills as a fad sets up a counterproductive falsely dichtomous mutual exclusivity?

That’ll do.

Things I Know 16 of 365: I need anchors

We are family.

– Sister Sledge

I write this as I sit at a kitchen table in Connecticut. My cousins (second cousins) sit around me discussing their college experiences and their lives outside of college.

We range from 19 to 31.

We rarely see one another.

They don’t know the ins and outs of my life and I am admittedly unaware of the details of their lives.

Still, we share more distinct genetic markers than those I pass on my walk to school each day.

Knowing that signals a comfort in my brain.

Today, three of us sat silently in the living room reading. We just finished an excellent meal of fettucine alfredo and salad and crusty bread.

Our closest common relative was my great-grandmother who passed away in 1999.

Still, we are family, and we are broke bread, and I love them.

Just now, the photo album from my great-grandmother’s 95th birthday party has come out and we are remarking on the haircuts of our adolescence.

Living at least 700 miles from where I was born for the majority of my adulthood has meant I’ve been away from most of my family.

These moments, these times of sharing meals and memories, are fewer and further between than I’d like.

Tomorrow I’ll travel home and return to my daily existence. Still, I’ll have anchors like tonight and my summer and Christmas trips back to Illinois to remind me who I am and where I come from.

Things I Know 15 of 365: I like trains

“I think I can. I think I can.”

– The Little Engine that Could

Friday, I was supposed to catch the bus from Philadelphia up to New York.

I was performing in an improv show at the Magnet Theater, so the timing was somewhat important.

When I arrived at the bus’ point of departure – no bus.

Thinking perhaps things had changed, I walked to the other side of the block to see if we were boarding somewhere new.

I turned the corner just in time to see the bus mounting the on-ramp wihtout me. It had left 5 minutes early.

I hurried to the train station to plan an alternative route.

A regional rail train was scheduled to depart 20 minutes later.

I like trains.

I knew where the train would be.

I knew when it would depart.

If it was running late, the station signage would alert me to the delay.

Once on the train, I could ask the conductor at any time when we’d be arriving and he’d be able to tell me.
We arrived two minutes ahead of schedule.

Now, I’m an adaptable guy. I can go with the flow and appreciate when my environment affords me the opportunity to experiment with ideas and actions – to improvise.

Still, my life and my classroom require a certain element of train-ness.

For my students to play with ideas without fear of reproach, they must know certain consistencies exist. They must know we will begin and end on schedule, that I can update them on our progress at any moment and that they are on track. Knowing they are headed safely in the direction of their goals, my students can focus on the journey to understanding and reflect on what happens along the way.

In my professional life, I require some train-ness as well. I need to know those responsible for my conveyance along the journey won’t keep me guessing as to the time and place of departure. I need to know the intended destination will not change after we’ve left the station. I need to be able to ask about our route, our progress and our expected arrival at any point and know I’ll get a straight answer. I need to know we’ll press on when something blocks our way rather than abandoning our route. Moreover, I need to know I’m safe.

The train took more time than the bus. The train was more expensive than the bus.

The train got me where I needed to go.

Things I Know 14 of 365: I need to give students choice

“It is our choices that show who we truly are, far more than our abilities.”

– J.K. Rowling

Not every job moves you to embrace hitting your head against the wall. Teaching is a concusive experience.

My students have been exploring science fiction for the last few weeks. From 24 available titles, they researched and selected 6 they wouldn’t mind reading. From there, I worked my teacherly magic to fit them into groups of 4-5.

They set reading schedules, engaged in book talks and wrote discussion reflections to focus their thinking and investigation of a much-maligned though historically significant genre.

After 5 weeks, I was in a familiar spot of moving from group to group trying to convince them they liked their books. Strong was the temptation to label their reading as lazy and surface. It beat the alternative of acknowledging they might just dislike the books.

“If the Reader’s Bill of Rights tells us we can stop reading any time we want, Mr. Chase. Why do we still have to read this book?”
Stupid student choice combined with empowerment.

“Because sometimes people will make you read things you don’t like, and I’ve decided to help you grow a lifelong love of reading by highlighting some of the most regrettable parts of the act,” seemed a poor reply.

Last week, we studied James Gunn’s “A Worldview of Science Fiction.” The kids played cat’s cradle with the ideas so intently that our discussion carried over to this week.

They were starting to see science fiction could include ideas other than those at work in their respective texts.

I was starting to see, again, students’ thinking about what they read grows anemic when they’re forced to read something they don’t like.

In Thursday’s class, I opened by having the students learn all they could about Battlestar Galactica. We collected notes, I fielded questions, and I queued up episode 1 of season 1 “33.”

At the opening credits, I paused and answered questions about details of the cold opening.

When the show hit the tail end of the unusually slow download and the class let out a collective, “No!” I knew I had them.

Today, we welcomed the former head of PR for the SyFy Channel who now works at SLA’s partner organization The Franklin Institute. A lifelong reader of science fiction and English major in college, she talked about what it took to sell science fiction on contemporary television, the creative process behind shows like Battlestar and Farscape and how she made choices as a reader.

The students talked about what they liked about the previous day’s partial episode and what they wanted when they picked up science fiction.

When Andre, who has been railing against his book for two weeks, raised his hand and asked, “How do you come back after reading a bad sci-fi book?” I knew we were making progress.

The progress came when I remembered what I believe to be true:

  1. Give kids choices.
  2. Show real-world models.
  3. Connect them with passionate adults who know what they’re talking about.

Forcing them to read books they didn’t care about that hadn’t been organically recommended and that they didn’t much care for was really more a test of our rapport than their abilities.

Next time I decided to run repeatedly into walls, I’l try to see the dents I’ve left this time and take them as reminders.

Things I Know 13 of 365: You get what you pay for

I’ll gladly pay you tomorrow for a hamburger today.

– J. Wellington Wimpy

Ordering pizza a few nights ago, I sound like a non-hilarious version of “Who’s on first?”

“Can you repeat the last four number?” says the lady taking my credit card number.

I say the previous four and start to say the next four when she begins to repeat the orignal four back to me and as we’re talking at the same time, no one hears the other.

“I’m sorry,” says she, “Can you call back? This is a horrible connection.”

I hang up and hit redial.

As it’s ringing through again, I want to get frustrated with the connection.

It’s not the first time I’ve had trouble being understood when calling out.

Then, again, I have no room to complain.

I’m using Google Voice through my Gmail account – two services for which I’ve not paid, but use on a regular basis. Were this the halcyon days of wireless communication, after my pizza was ordered, I could have called customer service to report my dissatisfaction with my calls. I would have spent upward of 45 minutes on hold and been awarded the golden fleece of customer service, an account credit.

And, yes, I realize, I could report these inconveniences to Google, but I’d feel silly.

I felt silly yesterday when I tweeted out dissatisfaction with my inability to track changes in Google Docs. The student whose paper I was grading was a comma splice junky, and inserting a comment to denote where each comma should have been was proving an onerous task.  Fed, up, I released the tweet to the world – another service for which I do not pay.

Others with similar frustrations replied with affirmations of their likemindedness. Someone even suggested I check the “revision history.” This was something I’d considered, but it wasn’t what I was looking for.

“I want track changes,” I wanted to explain, “Just like they have in Microsoft Office.” (I know, bite my tongue.)

Still, though, there was something nice about the days when we bought big, beautiful, bug-ridden software packages. They were brimming with new features we’d uncover by mistake and then spend hours trying to disable.

Then, when that one thing we wanted to do wouldn’t work, we could complain in beautiful, consternated poetry and be justified because we had paid.

I get the argument that we’ve paid for Google. Today, when I logged in and saw someone on Facebook had liked my request for revision history on Google Docs because that tweet was sent by Interwebs magic to my status updates, I was reminded what I’ve paid. What were once the asides that filled my days like mental belly button lint are now pieces of data to fuel the machine and generate pageviews.

Yes, we can have the existential debate of what it means to give over our thoughts to corporations so that they can make money, but that’s not the conversation we’re having now.

I’m talking money. I haven’t spent any of it on Google.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m fine with our agreement. My life is easier because of the free.

So, I’ll continue to keep mum about my frustration with the passing of Delicious which has been an invaluable volunteer link-sitter for the past few years. I’ll ignore the next commercial on Pandora that interrupts the songs piping through the station I’ve been doggedly curating for months now. And, when Hulu asks me which lady I’m most interested in watching test drive a new car while I’m catching up on episodes of Stargate: Universe, I’ll click without protest.

Free, has a costs.

Things I Know 12 of 365: Snow Days are different than I thought they’d be

Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!

– Sammy Cahn

Winter can be an unpleasant experience.

What begins as the clockwork schedule of my morning routine in the fall turns to waking with only minutes to spare in the winter.

Simple things such as taking the dog for a walk, grabbing a piece of fruit as I head out the door, letting the French press have full 4 minutes to seep – these must be forsaken in the winter.

Why, then, was I fully awake and ready this morning at 3:45?

Why was I checking my e-mail and hitting Chrome’s refresh button as though I was expecting the news of one of the finest lessons I’ve ever had the privilege to teach?

Snow day.

Somewhere around 3 inches had accumulated overnight.

Word had it the decision to declare a snow day was made between 4 and 5 a.m.

I didn’t set an alarm or anything. My body knew.

There was no news at 3:45, 4, 4:14, 4: 37 or 4:53.

After that, my memory is a little hazy.

Then, at 6:30, my alarm went off. Then, I hit snooze. Then, I hit snooze. Then, I hit snooze.

Then I forced myself from bed.

Then, the news came.

And the peasants rejoiced.

When I was younger, I imagined my teachers had a party on Snow Days. They met a Chuck E. Cheese’s or Ground Round wearing party hats and blowing noisemakers. Tears for Fears was playing.

It turns out Snow Days (and yes, they’re capitalized) are cause for celebration, but not parties on the part of teachers.

The uniform was my pajamas and my ratty robe which I’m conditioning for when I’m an old man needing to yell at kids to get off my yard.

Instead of Chuck E. Cheese, I was in my living room. Instead of hats and noisemakers I had essays galore to grade.

Ke$ha was playing.

Snow Days as a teacher are not what I pictured when I was younger.

And sure, getting up will be more difficult again tomorrow.

Today, though, was a Snow Day.

Things I Know 11 of 365: College should do college better

Professor: One who speaks in someone else’s sleep.

– Unknown

Art and Society: Theater of the Civil War

Text and Context: Islamic Art and Culture

Traditional and Non-Traditional Grammar

Three courses of my undergraduate studies.

The first two were ordered from the menu of Illinois State University’s General Education program. The third was selected as one of the rhetorical requirements made of an English major.

I selected them because they sounded interesting.

Though I remember scant lessons from each such as my “A” on the paper, “Nouns: More than People, Places, Things an Ideas,” I can’t say that they proved incredibly interesting. They were work, yes, but they didn’t incite my curiosity. It’s a shame, too. I’ve got a pretty wicked curiosity.

College should do college better.

As I write letters of recommendation for our exiting seniors, I want to include a note at the end – just a heads up to whomever inherits our students – “Don’t screw them up.”

After four years of inquiry-driven, project-based learning, our students are ready for the interesting. They are prepared to ask questions and look for answers. They are prepared to do real stuff. They have written grant proposals, interviewed voters, written the histories of their neighborhoods and documented their families’ dearest memories.

Don’t worry about building your new sports complex, your shinier student union, your rec center, your re-sodded quad. Instead, look in your syllabi and ask if, at 18, you’d want to sit and listen to what you have to say.

Don’t mistake me, I’m not going all Mary Poppins here. It doesn’t have to be fun.

It should be, and by God, please make at least a little effort here, interesting.

Some of the best times and biggest mistakes I made in college happened in the offices of the campus paper, The Daily Vidette. What’s more, I didn’t pay tuition to write there. They paid me. It turns out writing for a real audience to inform them and to keep those in power honest drove me to understand the importance of sourcing your information and getting the quotes just right.

It was interesting, and it was important.

If “Don’t screw them up” is too vague, let me be more specific.

Colleges, universities, you don’t own the information anymore.

We’re teaching out students to access it, to analyze it, to ask what they can do with it and then to create with it.
I understand that used to be your job. Well, the first two anyway. You’ve been outsourced.

They’re coming to you hungry, curious and capable. If you assume otherwise, you will lose them. They will see through your undervaluing of their potential and they will lose interest.

We’ll still be down here pushing them up to you, but you’ve got to keep them there.

In order to do that, I think it’s going to take more than promoting your 24-hour Taco Bell.