BCOR (working title)

This chapter belongs both at the beginning and the end of this book. Here at the beginning we hope it helps to clarify our philosophical base. At the end it might help you to begin to assemble the many pieces into a full picture. Perhaps when you reach the end of this book you’ll return to this chapter once more.

We shall never cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time. -T.S. Eliot

Simon says touch your nose. Simon says jump. Simon says learn.
For the players, the fun of Simon Says is in being attentive to the cue “Simon says” and competent enough to do what Simon says. A lot of the fun is also in performing the actions dictated by Simon. But the players do not invest any meaning in the actions—clap your hands, make a funny face, turn around 3 times—in and of themselves. The players do not give much thought to whether they’d prefer touching an ear to jumping, or which of those actions would be best for their physical health or hand-eye coordination.

Of course, the idea that kids would be reflective about the beneficial qualities of this game is ridiculous. They play Simon Says for the fun of it. But I’m worried that classroom life is too much like Simon Says. Instead it’s “Teacher Says,” and the fun, for some students, is in being attentive enough to teacher cues and competent enough to do what teacher says. But what if that’s it? What if, like in Simon Says, the students do not invest any meaning in the actions? It is not ridiculous to want students to be reflective about the beneficial qualities of learning activities.

I don’t want to be Simon anymore. I want to stop taking for granted that behavior management, learning, assessing, enforcing rules, accountability, pacing, and homework are solely my responsibility. I’d like to share some of that responsibility with my students. In doing so, students would own some of the decision making power in the classroom and this requires that they be reflective about their learning.

To view a real classroom issue through this philosophical lens, consider independent reading. I gave independent reading as homework for many years because I felt responsible for the reading habits of the students outside of school—ironic if you think about the description of the reading: independent. Looking back, I can separate my students into three groups in regards to the assignment’s completion: the ones who would have read anyway, the ones who did it because I assigned it, and the ones who didn’t read. The kids in the third group didn’t read and in so doing failed to follow directions. The kids who did read were following directions. However, none of that is about reading, which is what I used to think that assignment was for.

Only one group of students benefited from my assignment. They are the ones who still enjoy the Simon Says Classroom-Edition Game and so that benefit came at a cost. They were willing and able to comply with the assignment I gave, but it’s a gesture as empty as the words of a kid who is ordered to apologize. No one can ever know if the child’s apology is genuine because the kid was directed to give it. Even the kid issuing the mandatory apology is probably unsure of its meaning. Similarly, how meaningful could a reading experience be with “My teacher told me to,” as a purpose?

For the group of nonreaders, it is obvious that this is a negative situation: they have failed to do their homework and they have failed to read. Surprisingly though, this is also a negative situation for the students who would have read regardless of whether it was assigned or not. What is the message they get when they are told to do what they would have done anyway? It’s the way you feel when you see a loved one, arms full of packages, who needs a door opened. And just as you register that s/he says, “Uh, a little help here??” You sputter, “I was coming! Just give me a second!” It’s insulting. You think, “What kind of person do you think I am? Don’t you trust me?”

Trust vs. Mistrust
If there is anything we wish to change in the child, we should first examine it and see whether it is not something that could better be changed in ourselves. -Carl Jung

How do I view a student who is certainly intelligent, yet day after day does not do her homework? I must admit that I have tended to view such a child as stubborn. I have also entertained the idea that perhaps she’s trying to get my attention or press my buttons. For a long time, my default setting when something went awry with academics or behavior was mistrust. I didn’t want to be hoodwinked by mischievous, irresponsible, or lazy kids. If they get away with something once, it opens the floodgates and spreads like a contagious disease. All this caused me to think about trust. Does this mindset indicate a feeling of trust for students? Not so much.

What would happen if I were to use Occam’s Razor? What if I sidestepped the vain assumption that the student’s choice is about me and the assignment I gave? What if I assume that each time a child does something, she is behaving as lightning would and taking the most direct path to the ground possible? Then instead of thinking of appropriate consequences for the student’s actions, I’d have a list of questions. Why was it the clearest path? Does she have any choices about the work she does? Did I communicate clearly enough? Did she have the tools she needed? Did she understand the purpose of the assignment? Had she ever done anything like it before? Had she ever seen a good model? Did she care about the assignment? Was everything okay at home? Some of these would be questions for the child, some I’d need to ask myself, and for some questions, answers from both of us would be helpful.

In asking these questions, getting answers, and then having a discussion, this child and I would both learn something. I’d learn about my teaching and about the student. The student would learn something about reflection, assessment, metacognition, and about the assignment itself. I believe that students want to learn and succeed. I believe that most still have that intense curiosity about the world that is one of the defining characteristics of children. The opposite view would be a jaded one and I’m convinced that jaded views and children do not mix well. So if not doing her homework was the choice that caused her to bump into the fewest obstacles, I have some valuable problem solving to do about the obstacles in this child’s life.

I still have that, “BUT?!” reflex when I think about this prospect. Am I going to let her get away with this? In the meanwhile, every time I look at frustrating or disappointing experiences I’ve had with students and break them down this way, I come up with the same conclusion. Instead of viewing my role as the one authority with power in my classroom whose duty it is to impose consequences on this student, I can trust her enough to share some power with her. She and I will both learn more in this situation than in the first, but it takes more time and it requires a trust that I’m still in the process of building.

It’s All Toilet Training
Once, at the end of a summer break, I was visiting with my principal, Sue. We were sipping a cool drink, talking a little shop, and chatting about the summer. While catching me up on news of her daughters, she said she was in the throes of toilet training. She added, “Unfortunately my daughter is not.” The laughter that followed her comment was a result of a recognition of truth. Like Sue, I’ve realized that it is not actually possible to toilet train a child. It is, however, certainly possible to set the stage for exploring this option. We can model and encourage toilet use. We can even use coercion but that sets up an adversarial relationship which isn’t helpful. Regardless of what we do, the child is in control of the decision and ultimately chooses when to be “toilet trained.”

I think almost everything we do in relationships is like toilet training a toddler. Just as I cannot make a toddler use a toilet without her willingness, I cannot force a student behave or do her homework without some sort of involvement on her part. I can’t make a child understand a concept or even feel compelled to understand it. This is not so much a teaching style I’m choosing, but a reality I am acknowledging.

~~~
Double Dutch and Longing
If you want to build a ship, don't drum up people together to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea.
-Antoine deSaint-Exupery, French author and aviator

I alone cannot plant the desire to try or a craving to learn in a student. The student has to cooperate. So how do we encourage them to long for the endless immensity of the sea?

Learning to read, or to use thinking strategies for any purpose, is a complex, difficult, private act often done in a public place. It’s like learning to jump Double Dutch on a playground full of people. You walk up to the spinning ropes. You can hear them slice the air. You can imagine what it would feel like to have one come down on your head or sting your cheek. And you can hear people’s reactions as you get clobbered. You’re trying something new and difficult where everyone can see you. You don’t want pain and public failure. You can walk away. Many do. Many people never try to jump in. After all, on top of getting in, there’s the staying in which requires coordination and serious exertion. If you never master Double Dutch, you can still have a very high quality life. But if you never master reading and thinking there’s little chance.

What causes a person to approach those whirling ropes and try to jump in for the first time—or the first ten times? Where does that willingness come from? Some kids come to school with it already in place. In that situation, this job of teaching actually seems to be in the realm of the possible. It is the student without the apparent desire to learn that poses the most difficult of teaching situations. Is it possible for us to deposit that desire in a student? This would-be jumper might be coaxed with encouraging words. But what will make all the difference is showing her that accomplishing this act is not only important to her future, but within the realm of the possible now.

Forging Keys and Building Kingdoms
In teaching reading, generally the keys are skills that a good reader employs, and the kingdom is a body of knowledge. Each competent reader has her own reading keys and kingdom.

One of our jobs as teachers is to guide students so that they can possess their own. In accomplishing that daunting task, it often seems like the answer is to try to give them ours—like the scene in a movie where the father puts his arm around his first born, gestures out at his empire, and exclaims, “Son, one day all this will be yours.” The truth is that your kingdom cannot be given because it is the act of building it that makes it meaningful for you. Each of us needs to build his/her own. That’s the central tenet to constructivism which we’ll get to in a bit.

You do need to show your students a view of your kingdom. You will need to let them borrow your keys. But you’ll remind them each time they do that those keys are yours and they have a due date. In the process of repossessing your keys, you will be encouraging your students to forge their own keys, build their own kingdom, and repeatedly to look at their craftsmanship in order to make sure each artifact is of the highest quality.

At first this requires a leap of faith—one you must take for the sake of your students. You must have a belief that with good modeling and with guidance they will eventually not need either one. You must have an integral appreciation for your students’ interests and trust in their ability so that when they are ready, you become a spectator.

There also has to be an honesty and openness in your teaching. If you are loaning your keys to the students, it is imperative that those keys be genuine and of excellent quality. If you’re going to inspire students to continue to build their kingdoms—or perhaps seek one out for the very first time—the view you afford them must really be your kingdom, not one concocted just for the purpose of getting through that week’s reading lessons. As Neil Postman wrote, kids have built-in crap detectors.

It’s easy to be a constructivist teacher… if you don’t mind being bad at it.
Constructivism isn’t just letting kids set the pace and find their own direction. There’s more to it than controlled anarchy. Being an effective constructivist educator requires skill, years of experience, and a familiarity with each student.

You have to be a coach. Interestingly, it seems that the word coach came from the name of a Hungarian village, Kocs, which was known for its cart building. There has been speculation that the more current use of the term coach evolved from this—describing a vehicle that conveyed a willing rider from where she is to where she wants to go.

Our first job as a guide, or a coach, is to find out about our students’ goals. Some students already yearn for the endless immensity of knowledge which makes finding out easy. Some will eventually long for it, but need help getting in touch with their interests in which case you go on a journey of discovery together.

Our next job is to have many ingredients in place for students to achieve their goals. These ingredients need to be helpful to the students in constructing their knowledge and must be part of an environment that is conducive to their using the ingredients. These ingredients will be discussed at length and in detail in the following chapters.

Of course there will be important and fascinating areas of study that are not on a student’s list of destinations. There is much that a child doesn’t know, and there are ways of knowing of which they can’t conceive because of their age, developmental stage, and lack of life experience. In addition to needing a coach, students also need a leader. A leader—as my own leader Sue has helped me to understand—is someone who will take a person from where they are to a place they couldn’t have even imagined.

A great teacher—like a great principal—balances her roles. Sometimes she dabbles with inspiration as a coach and sometimes she projects aspirations as a leader. As we as teachers coach and lead, each student must build his/her own kingdom because it is the process of building the kingdom that makes the product meaningful to the builder.

Trust the Force, Luke
This wouldn’t be realistic or complete discussion if I were to leave out the students who do not long for the endless immensity of anything. We all know children and adults like this. They are not in need of a coach because they have no destination in mind. They don’t want a leader because they don’t trust the ride. And sometimes it’s a piecemeal affair: A student needs a coach in math, a leader in reading but in writing, they’re shut down. Just like with everything else in this book, there’s no silver bullet. But I know that there’s one crucial ingredient whether it’s a coaching situation, a leadership situation, or one of coaxing the reticent student: trust.

In questioning my trust of students, and their trust of me, I have become a better teacher. In this process, I have rediscovered the progressive roots of my teaching philosophy. I have opened the door to learning about myself and about teaching from my students. They’re experts about what makes adults tick and about how school works. If I watch and listen, I can construct important pedagogical principles from what they do and say. In lifting my eyes from the learning frameworks of my state long enough to look at the human faces of my students, I have formed more connected and respectful relationships with them and their families. By closing the discipline and behavior management books in order to ask my students about themselves and their choices, I have gained the privilege of their trust and a peek into their lives and hearts.