Month: January 2011

Things I Know 31 of 365: Silliness is golden

I love to laugh.

– Uncle Albert, Mary Poppins

You know what made Captain Kirk great?

Not the countless rescues of the planet(s) cum galaxies cum universe((s)?).

Not his rainbow of romantic conquests.

Not..his…ExceptionalCadenceWhenSpeaking.

James Tiberius Kirk was great because he could have fun. The guy heeded Mary Poppins’s advice, and took a spoonful of sugar on each mission.

Almost every episode ended with Jim, Bones and Spock on the bridge ribbing each other as though they’d forgotten thwarting death once again.

Lately, it strikes me the fun is neglected more often than not when we talk about teaching.

I’m not talking learning.

I’m talking teaching.

It’s fun.

Seriously.

My best days in the classroom are those in which I do one hundred silly things before lunch. If I’ve taken my work seriously, but not myself, I’ve done alright.

I don’t get the feeling programs like KIPP put too much stock in silly.

That might be the real danger.

If we’re truly facing some of the most complex challenges of the modern or any era, building classrooms of Borg is not the answer.

Success should include an element of silly.

Saturday, Diana, Ros and I led a session at EduCon on interdisciplinarity. The ideas were flying, and nearly 50 educators from all over the country joined us.

We spoke of supports and obstacles. We shared resources and we networked. We deliberated on the existence of common ground between scripted and project-based curricula. Many pieces of the conversation challenged my thinking.

The most tweeted moment from the session?

A joke I made.

No profession should ever be this starved for funny.

Yes, times are hard. Yes, the policy debate looks like it was designed on the island of Dr. Moreau. Yes, budgets are drying up faster than Cuba Gooding Jr.’s career.

And, we’ll get all of that sorted out.

First and always, let’s have a little levity.

It will save us.

When Mike Myers faced off with James Lipton on Inside the Actor’s Studio, Myers commented on the most important lessons he’d learned while growing up poor.

His parents taught him the value of free fun and of silly.

I’ll buy that.

When I hear about the incredibly high burnout rates of new teachers, I cannot help but think their professors taught them how to teach, but not how to have fun doing it.

And, it’s too much work not to have fun doing it.

I love teaching because teaching the whole child requires me to be my whole self. Every day, I access my passion for learning and asking questions – all the while looking for the funny.

Seriousness of mission and purpose need not mean seriousness in execution.

Things I Know 30 of 365: Feedback can be tricky

Do not say a little in many words, but a great deal in a few.

– Pythagoras

For a pretty large chunk of the day, yesterday, I was in my office – lights off, bottle of lavender essence open, Balmorhea playing on iTunes.

I was working to complete an implementation plan for the inquiry project assigned as part of my grad program.

By the end of it all, my desk was covered in printed resources and my web browser was creaking under the weight of all my open tabs.

I submitted my 6 hours of work ahead of schedule, hopeful it rose to the challenge presented by the assignment.

For the plan, I’d suggested some ideas the practicality of which I was unsure. As I juggled them in my head, I was fairly certain I’d culled the best of the ideas. Still, I was uncertain.

This afternoon, I logged in to the course to find my assignment had been graded. I’d earned 45 out of 45 points. Relieved, I turned my attention to the comments field to see how the ideas had played out with my facilitator:

The plan summary clearly articulates a focused problem statement: the specific goals, which are measurable; the specific solutions you have chosen for t his project; the preparatory steps; and the expected outcomes for the inquiry project. The weekly plans are clear, creative, and appropriate with evidence of insight and thoughtful planning.

While I’m pleased with my score, it doesn’t doesn’t really do much for me as feedback.

Neither do the comments.

Two circumlocutious sentences with words that certainly sound as though they should mean something, but no.

Today, I had the honor of moderating a panel discussion on how schools can foster student innovation. While, I can carry on a conversation with a tree stump, I’ve never moderated anything. For 90 minutes, amid some interesting audio issues, I attempted to probe the minds of five deeply thoughtful educators. I was, in a word, nervous.

While the audience clapped when they were supposed to and several strangers told me “good job” when everything had concluded, I was uncertain of the job I’d done.

Later, sitting in the office snarfing a bag of popchips and downing lukewarm coffee, I checked in to twitter.

From Chris, I saw “@MrChase is an amazing moderator,” with a picture of the panel in progress.

Michael replied with, “So true…You are rocking, Zac.”

And from Ben, “You did an amazing job. Period. You=my hero.”

I realize they are tweets. Even re-typing them here, I feel a bit silly.

Still, those three lines contained more feedback than any of the acrobatic language from my facilitator.

I know these three. Through the relationships we’ve cultivated, I’ve come to understand their expectations and what it means to earn their approval. While I see the hyperbole in what they’ve said, I also know they do not offer up public praise lightly.

I understood their expectations, and they offered up their opinions using clear language.

I know I completed neither the implementation plan nor the panel moderation perfectly.

The feedback I received on both was positive. In fact, the implementation plan score implies I did nothing wrong.

Still, I’ll never message my facilitator seeking advice for improvement. The relationship is too distant, the language too obtuse.

Should I ever need to moderate again, though, I’ll seek the advice of these three, knowing they will evaluate me with a notion to help me be a better version of myself.

Things I Know 29 of 365: Time runs out

For the longest time…

– Billy Joel

I had the chance to talk with a room of almost 50 educators from around the country today.

Teachers are pretty amazing.The main thrust of our conversation focused around interdisciplinarity. At some point, the problem of scripted curriculum reared its head.

“If I try to use interdisciplinarity in my classroom, will I be able to make it through my scripted curriculum?”

We went back and forth for a bit.

Then the voice of experience spoke up, “I came to terms long ago with the fact that I’d never get through everything in my curriculum. There would never be enough time.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

Today, I wanted desperately to be in EduCon sessions learning and conversing with dedicated and passionate educators, but I needed to sequester myself away from everyone to complete another grad school assignment.

When I was finally done, I was able to socialize with other attendees and have some pretty excellent discussions with those peers.

Even that, though, meant there wouldn’t be enough time.

Now, I’ve 30 seconds to hit “Publish.”

Things I Know 28 of 365: Sometimes it’s best to sit and listen

Listen my children and you shall hear.

– Henry Woodsworth Longfellow, “Paul Revere’s Ride”

Five people from varied fields sat in leather chairs I’ve been told have some pretty intense historical value.

Representing tech, ethics, agriculture, design and the arts, these five spoke for two hours on the ipetus and importance of innovation.

They’ve traveled the world, worked in amazing locales and used focused their lives on understanding, solving and anticipating problems unique to their fields.

The ideas they’ve played with exist largely outside the ideas floating in the air of a traditional English classroom.

No one polled the audience, no one asked for show of hands or had to prepare a slide deck or vacate the stage after 20 minutes.

It was intelligent people who do useful work talking to one another, sharing ideas. And, we got to watch.

Nothing was expected of me other than listening and considering.
Pondering.

Nothing was ignited and TED wasn’t in the house.

And this, this has value. It has the value of listening to Beethoven or reading Wilde or visiting a Picasso.

Sometimes, participation means listening. Sometimes, learning is a silent act.

Tomorrow, there will be sessions and presentations and conversations and we will talk and listen and ask and answer.

Tonight, thoughtful people spoke and our job was to listen and ponder.

Things I Know 27 of 365: My mom was right

Hello, mudda…

– Allen Sherman

Fifty-one years ago, my mother was born.

I’ve called her on my birthday to say, “Thanks for birthing me.”

Tonight when I called her I said, “Thank you for being born.”

If you’ve ever read Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything, you understand the weight of that statement. For thousands of years, the right person had to be born for me to be born.

She’s taught me many things in our time together. Here are the two most important.

“Remember who you are.”

I can’t remember an important moment of my life where my mother’s Edward R. Murrow sign-off as I was heading out the door wasn’t, “Remember who you are.”

And I have.

I’ve tried.

Every once in a while, there have been moments of decision where I’ve chosen poorly. In the wake of those choices, I’ve remembered who I am.

In my best moments as a person, I remember who I am. I stand before my classroom or the bathroom mirror and realize, “I got that right. I was me.”

It’s tricky. Anyone who’s ever lost sight of who they are will understand.

One more thing.

At some point, when I was small and my mom was heading to something I thought it to be important, I tried to give her a taste of her own medicine. She walked out the door, and I said, “Remember your name.”

It wasn’t quite what I meant. But, it was.

Somehow, that sentiment has lived on in the pantheon of our family’s oral history.

It’s why the final scene of The Crucible gets me so worked up.

For me to remember who I am, I must also remember my name. I must own who I am. I must be fully and completely me – at all times.

As a teacher and participant in the virtual world, I’ve many names. I’m Zac. I’m Mr. Chase. I’m “mister…mister…” I’m “hey.” In a pinch, I’m the litany of every person you’ve ever known who looks like me even if you can’t think of my name.

Beyond the verbalization, my name stands. And, like who I am, I remember it.

Thanks, mom.

Things I Know 26 of 365: I need to know my teachers

No more teachers’ dirty looks.

– Alice Cooper, “School’s Out”

“Do you like your facilitator?” one of my kids asked the other day about the facilitator of my grad class.

I paused.

“I don’t know her.”

I truly don’t.

This course has featured no welcome e-mail, no bio on BlackBoard. Nothing.

In the course chat, I learned a little about her church, but not much about her.

Were it not for the tacit trust I put in the university’s hiring processes, I might worry she’s a pimply-faced high school sophomore who fits his grading in between Dungeons and Dragons sessions.

I don’t know her enough to like her.

I’ll never know her the way I would were we to share physical space. I’ll never know the color of her hair. I realize the strangeness of that statement, but it’s nothing to the strangeness of the not knowing.

Her face looks like as she gives a class time to ponder a question will forever be a mystery to me.

Does she pronounce my name with a drawl? Would she appreciate my humor? I’ll never know if she’s someone who stands the entire class or leans against a wall or desk.

I’ll never know.

These things I’d like to know.

If I’m to like her, these things help me decide.

If I’m to respect her, I need to know her.

She is responsible for facilitating my learning around curricula and learning, yet I can tell you not one thing about her pedagogy.

I imagine these weeks we’re together in this course to be similar to the early days of an arranged marriage. Contrastingly, though, we both have designs on an annulment.

It’s easier to dislike her if she exists as this disembodied set of deadlines and dropboxes.

My own little Milgram experiment.

A key piece of learning from my grad program has been my understanding of my drive to connect my learning to relationships.

My mathematical matriculation through AP Calculus was due solely to the care and academic craftsmanship of Mr. Curry.

I’ve yet to feel that care or craftsmanship in my courses.

This is not whining.

This is me attempting to understand why my otherwise voracious appetite for learning, understanding and creating meaning absolutely vanishes in these courses.

In no small part, I need to know my instructor as much as I need to know my content.

Things I Know 25 of 365: We need to ban more books

Every burned book enlightens the world.

– Ralph Waldo Emerson

We need to ban more books.

Let me be more specific.

You need to ban more books.

I don’t mean a small, intimate banning with just a timid teacher and an irate parent.

I need a top-level, principal, school board, superintendent, someone-call-the-press banning.

You see, the bigger the banning, the easier it is for me to get my students to read – that book.

When they’re finished with that book?

We celebrate the history of your banning brethren.

We’ve been keeping track.

“Yes, other books have been banned before.”

“Yes, there is a list.”

“Yes, they are in the library.”

“Yes, you may be excused to run down and check it out.”

Your banning is like an NC-17 rating daring my students to forge fake library cards and sneak into the pages of ideas undetected.

What’s more, it’s a bat signal of ignorance that lets me know I need to teach your child to ask. Ask everything.

My pedagogy forbids me from telling him what to think, but it demands that I ask him to think.

I hope someday I’ll write a banned book. I’ll join the ranks of Twain, Morrison, Orwell, Faulkner, Crutcher, Blume, Sacher, Huxley, London, King, Sallinger, Walker, Myers, Hemingway, Mitchell, Atwood, Rowling, Conrad, Sinclair, Lawrence, Silverstein, Wright, Hinton, Zindel, Hurston, Miller, Joyce, Lee, and so many more.

So, ban.

It keeps me in business.

Ban.

It helps me know who you are.

Ban.

It keeps them reading.

Ban.

Things I Know 24 of 365: We should say more

Only extremist messages can be fully conveyed in one sentence.

– Haim Harari, Physicist

The morning the 112th Congress convened, NPR’s Morning Edition aired a story on the evolution (or devolution) of the sound bite.

From 48 seconds in 1968 to the current standard of around 9 seconds, people of note are speaking to us in shorter and shorter spans.

When the issues we face are at their most complex, they are saying less.

We need them to say more.

Tonight, I had the opportunity to host #engchat, a weekly twitterchat concerning English education moderated by Meenoo Rami and Cindy Minnich.

I enjoyed the experience. It’s not often I get a dedicated hour of throwing questions up on twitter and watching thoughtful, creative English teachers from around the globe come up with answers.

At the same time, there were moments I felt the space confining or frustrating. This is not at all a criticism of #engchat – more a criticism of sound bites.

Several times, someone would share a creative lesson or project they’d completed with their students and I was intrigued.

“Where can I read more about it?” I asked.

With a few exceptions, teachers admitted their ideas lived in their heads or on their hard drives. I was bummed.

I want my colleagues to be writing about the lessons in their classrooms that work, sharing their reflections on practice and offering up suggestions for anyone who might wander down the same path after them.

I need more than a sound bite.

Sound bites infest my students’ writing from time to time as well.

Rather than pausing to present their reasoning in its entirety with examples and facts and evidence, they settle for the drive-by argument. Making the point overpowers the need to prove the point.

Tweets and sound bites are entrances to the conversations about the big ideas. They are not, as luck would have it, the actual big ideas.

If it takes you 9 seconds or 140 characters to prove your point, you should probably be examining either your proof or your point.

#EduConText Session 3: The Great Prohibition: Using Cell Phones Outside the Ban

The Great Prohibition: Using Cell Phones Outside the Ban

When: Session Three: Saturday 2:30pm–4:00pm Where: Room 313 Who: Lisa Nielsen, George Engel

Affiliation: The Innovative Educator Blog, Blogs.cellularlearning.org Conversational Focus/Audience: High School, Middle School

I’ve attended several conference presentations about the role of cell phones in learning. Generally, the conversation tends toward, “Yes, they’re important in learning,” and then moves to a discussion of tools.

While I see the possibility for that here, I’m also hopeful for a discussion of pedagogy and the thought processes surrounding building lessons utilizing these devices. I’m hopeful the conversation will include consideration of standard lesson plans and how mobile technologies an be transformative to the learning outcomes of those plans.

My questions heading into the conversation are:

  • How do you know if you’re using mobile technologies simply because they’re shiny rather than using them because they’re the ideal tool?
  • What are the best approaches to designing lessons that allow for students without access to mobile technologies that don’t water down the assignments?
  • How can we better harness the communication power of the technologies along with the creative power?
  • Are teachers using their mobile devices in the same way they’re asking their students to use those same devices?
  • What are the implications of mobile technologies in how we approach reading, writing and research instruction? More simply, how, if at all, does the incorporation of mobile technologies require us to teach differently?
  • What are the inherent properties of the devices that can assist learning apart from additional apps?
  • What’s the scholarship around mobile devices in education?

I’m glad Lisa and George are leading this conversation, and I look forward to hearing what the other folks in the room have to say. I’m hopeful, as the title suggestions, we’ll be able to move past the bans and focus on the pedagogical implications.

Where will you be conversing during Session 3? How are you starting to build your context for the conversation?

What is EduConText?


Things I Know 23 of 365: Bars are better than pedestals

The time to make up your mind about people is never.

– Katherine Hepburn, The Philadelphia Story

Someone mentioned to me the other day that I’d set the bar high.

I like that.

Alex is a former G8 student of mine who pole vaulted when he moved on to high school. I went to cheer him on once. Never having seen pole vaulting before, I was struck with the concept of it.

Kids were competing against two people – whoever cleared the highest measurement and their own highest vault.

The day I watched Alex compete, he didn’t place. The other athletes were of a different caliber. When he came over to talk to us following the event, though, Alex didn’t mention how he’d measured up to the others. Instead, he was frustrated with his own performance compared to what he knew he was capable of.

He’d vaulted his best for the day, but knew he could do better.

In Alex’s mind, his bar was higher.

A friend of mine had to call a student’s parents the other day. Not for the best of reasons. The student was terrified.

Her parents were pedestal people.

Their daughter could do no wrong. She was an A student. She was a star athlete. If she joined an organization, that group would be foolish not to have her as its president.

The phone call was to alert her parents that the student’s homework was off of late. As a result, her grade was slipping, and the teacher wanted to soften the blow.

The pedestal was shaking.

When bars are set, they give us something to shoot for – a reason to aim higher the next time. We know we’ve been there and want to go a little bit higher.

When we’re placed on pedestals, we’ve nothing to do but fear falling.

Bars are better.

Friday marks the start of SLA’s fourth iteration of EduCon. Watching the Interwebs, it is clear many are looking for a pedestal experience.

Don’t.

Education policy in the U.S. at the moment is built around pedestal experiences. We ask this year’s students to crawl up the the pedestal of last year’s students while we arbitrarily move it a bit higher. I never understood the purpose of King of the Mountain.

Set a bar instead.

Hell, set many bars.

For those returning to EduCon, consider your experience last year, what you took home, how it shifted your practice. Then, think what you can do this year to own the experience a little more, to ask a little more of yourself. Move the bar.

For those attending EduCon for the first time, decide what you want to learn, ask what assumptions you want to question, and how you want to inform your own practice. Then, do that. Set a bar.

EduCon is no more some sort of educational Mecca than my English class is a literary Jerusalem.

If you want to get the most from EduCon, approach it the same way I’ll be approaching teaching tomorrow – mindful of the best days and thoughtful of what I must do to be a little bit better than that.