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.
Zac, Upstairs we were never really able to hear the panel (unfortunately) and those tweets made me even sadder. When it gets posted (at least, I assume it will be) I look forward to watching it.Useless, pointless feedback is painful. After all the work put into something, whatever that thing may be, it is disrespectful of others (at least those who required the effort) to not respond with something meaningful. I hope you survive this program!