Paradigm Shifts

Learning is, essentially, the process of shifting, reshaping, and sometimes utterly revolutionizing our paradigm in order to reconcile our perceptions and experiences with the lens through which we view reality. Admittedly, that is a rough definition of learning, and some may wish to dispute it. That debate can wait for another post; for now, I am more interested in exploring the value of openness to a shifting paradigm in the process of teaching.

Perhaps this is even more true when speaking of a paradigm shift in its more technically accurate sense--certainly a genuine openness to a transformation of one's worldview would facilitate an honest inquiry after knowledge characteristic of such model teachers as Socrates. However, at the moment I am most interested in the smaller paradigm shifts--not really changes in paradigm at all, but changes in the way in which we view individuals and circumstances we encounter, changes that allow us to show greater mercy, greater compassion, to those we serve and those with whom we work.

I feel like I experience this every day in the classroom--or nearly everyday--as I learn more about the lives of my students. I had the experience just this evening, as I was taking some student autobiographies off the wall to make room for other samples of student work. As I looked at the "Snapshot Autobiographies" my students had written in the opening days of the school year, which had been proudly displayed on my wall for some time now, I realized that my initial cursory reading three weeks ago had not been at all sufficient. Or perhaps now that I knew something about my students, I was more prepared to receive information about their pasts. At any rate, I discovered things that had been before my eyes that I had never guessed about my students. I felt, among other things, a new respect for them. Tonight wasn't the first time, either. It seems that in the last three to four weeks, hardly a day has gone by in which I have not learned some story of hardship or suffering in the private life of one of my students--everything from divorce, domestic strife, and legal problems to gang involvement, drugs, and homelessness.

The more I learn about my students as individuals whose lives are so often filled with suffering, the easier it is for me to see myself as a servant rather than as a taskmaster--and that is a paradigm shift that is a key to effective teaching, I believe. This is not to say that I lower my expectations for my students out of pity--far from it; but I am more mindful of how my demands on them must appear, and of which demands are realistic, and which are simply asking too much of that particular student at this particular moment.

I have one student, though, who has seemed to defy this compassion-inducing paradigm shift. A chip on his shoulder from the first day of school, he was sarcastic, disrespectful, filled with negativity, dismissive of school work, cruel to other students--especially those who look, talk, behave, or believe differently from him--and generally unresponsive to my preferred methods of discipline. I wanted to have one of those paradigm shifts in relation to this student; I wanted to understand him better: I went to his other teachers, but found little more than the fact that they had similar problems with him (even teachers from previous years). I checked his permanent record, but learned little from it, other than that he was no stranger to suspension and other forms of school discipline. Finally, another teacher and I met with his parents--and saw him being just as rude and disrespectful to his parents as he was to us. I left the conference disappointed, unsure if we would ever be able to reach this student. Usually, (in my limited experience, anyway) even the most obnoxious students are meek and penitent when suddenly the authority of parents and teachers converge at some point in time and space. Not so with this child, apparently.

Yet in the few days since the conference, I have sensed the slightest hint of change; a suggestion of the early stages of thawing the icy barricade he has built between himself and authority. I want to see him differently--I want to recognize him for who he really is. Perhaps if I wait quietly enough--if I hold very still like one in the woods, watching a doe take those first timid steps into the clearing--he will give me that chance...



...In the meantime, I can comfort myself with these tokens of appreciation from two of my sixth grade students, passed forward to me during zero period this morning:



It's nice to know that some students feel this way about my class, even if the sentiments aren't exactly universal. These students make it that much easier to be patient with those who require the paradigm shifts I spoke of.

Patterns, Ideals, and Expectations: Learning to be at Peace with Myself in the Classroom

Someone once told me that expectations are simply preconceived resentments. I resisted the notion--after all, most human action is based on the expectation of some future result: I would not go to work (much as I love my students) if I did not expect some kind of compensation; I would not save money for the future if I did not expect to have a future; I would be very unlikely to ask a young lady out on a date if I had no expectation of her saying yes. After a year of teaching, however, I have decided that I will accept the proposition with which I opened this post, with a slight modification: unrealistic expectations are simply preconceived resentments. In my case, I too often vacillated last year between resenting my students (not all of them, but certain ones), and resenting myself or my own poor pedagogical practice.

This year, I am learning not to lower my expectations, but to make them more realistic--to realize that for both myself and my students, learning comes in small steps, taken one at a time--as the Biblical prophet Isaiah described it, we learn and grow "precept upon precept, line upon line." Remembering this truth has made it much easier for me to be at peace with myself, and with what is happening in my classroom, during these first weeks of my second year.

The realization came to me as I was leading my 8th graders in the "Islands" game--an activity designed to help develop communication and cooperation skills in small groups. In the game, students distribute a deck of cards with islands on them to each group member. Each island except one has a match somewhere in the deck. The groups task is to find the odd one out without showing or trading any of their individual cards. It is an activity that came out of the Complex Instruction system, developed at Stanford University by Rachel Lotan and Elizabeth Cohen. I had seen the activity work perfectly, providing a wealth of teachable moments, in my course on Teaching in Heterogeneous Classrooms at Stanford, and I wondered why it was not working nearly as well with my 8th graders.

Then I remembered something. I had seen it work so well with a group of graduate students at Stanford who were preparing to become teachers. It was simply silly to think it would happen just the same way with my young 8th graders. What I saw at Stanford was a pattern--an ideal I could strive for in my own practice. My reality will not always conform to the pattern, but the pattern is still essential as a tool against which I can constantly measure my practice as a teacher, hence growing closer and closer to the ideal. I discovered last year that it is far to easy as a teacher to use the pattern as a stick with which to flagellate oneself rather than as a measuring stick with which to monitor progress, slight and slow though it may be.

It would have been easy, at the end of last year, to simply throw out the pattern--to become disillusioned, to tell myself that the academics in the schools of education were out of touch with what things were "really" like in the classroom. But, that would have been unfair to them, to me, and to my students (not to mention being inaccurate, at least in the case of Stanford's School of Education--you would be hard pressed to find a better place for linking theory and research to practice). Instead, I need to remember to return to the pattern often, to see how closely my practice fits, and to enhance my own understanding of the pattern itself. Thus the pattern becomes not a reminder of my failures and shortcomings, but a source of living, growing knowledge--a guide to follow as I slowly, steadily fashion myself into the kind of teacher I know I can be.

Kicking off Round II: Creating the Learning Space

For a variety of reasons, my blog entries during my first year of teaching were sparse at best. In actuality, paucity of posts presents as much commentary on my experience as anything I might have written. While I began last year with the best of intentions, I allowed myself to be carried away by a cacophony of currents pulling me so many directions I could barely catch my breath, let alone keep a detailed chronicle of my experiences in the classroom.

Now, after a summer appreciated more than any summer in my life, I return to the classroom a bit wiser. Realistic expectations do much for preserving ones sanity, and now I think I have a better idea of what to expect of my students, and what to expect of myself. Perhaps most importantly, I'm committed to being at peace with whatever comes. Certainly I'll do all I can, make the most of every opportunity, but then I'll make myself sit back and remember I can't do everything, can't be everywhere, can't solve every student's life problems. In so doing, I'll preserve my physical and mental health much more effectively than I did last year.

Another important lesson I learned last year is the importance of the physical learning space. From the moment they walked through the door, my students were studying, learning, apprehending--not about the ancient civilization I was trying to teach about, so much as about me, what I valued, how I felt about them, and what kind of learning space I had provided for them. Now, I tried to create a welcoming classroom last year, but somehow it fell short:

My "Historical Thinking" Posters Not much color on the walls...

It wasn't bad, but it lacked something--something I couldn't put my finger on until around about mid-April, when a sweet young sixth grader raised her hand and said "Mr. Douglas, why isn't your classroom decorated all fun like Ms. So-and-so's?"

I don't remember exactly what I said to her. Part of me wanted to say "Hey, we're here to work, not to have fun," but that wouldn't fly with a sixth grader, and it's not entirely true anyway. I realized that the appearance of my room sent an array of powerful messages to my students. How, then, could I use the walls to communicate that my classroom is a safe place, a place of learning, a place of engagement, a place in which they are welcome with all of their ideas?

So, as the beginning of the new school year approached, I descended on my room with butcher paper, borders, posters, punch-out letters, and an entire arsenal of staples. Here is the result:

Here is the view as you step through the door (the blank space on the left will be filled with class rules and vocabulary words).


My map corner


Student work will go here .






The back wall, blue and calming (with a reminder to smile posted above the door).





Punch out letters, so useful.


One may not appreciate the full effect of the transformation without seeing my entire room as it was--the picture I provided from last year really isn't sufficient. My former students certainly noticed it; today, as students returned from summer vacation, several students from last year came by to say hello and almost thought they were in the wrong room. One even accused me of caring more for this year's students, as evidenced by the decoration. Not so, I told him--but I do hope that at least some of this year's students recognize that what they see in the learning space I provide is a token of my caring for them.

The Track Meet

My middle school didn't have a track team. Even if it had, I almost certainly would not have joined it; Academic Pentathlon was my preferred extra curricular activity in seventh grade, and I was always among the last to finish the weekly run we had to complete in P.E. every Friday. In high school, I filled the P.E. requirement by taking four years of Marching Band. Though I make sporadic efforts to keep myself fit, I have never been athletically inclined. It was, therefore, quite a surprise to find myself on a bus a few Wednesdays ago on my way to a middle school track meet.

The previous day, I had been sitting in the staff room enjoying lunch with several of my colleagues, including the sixth-grade language arts teacher who also happens to be the track coach. I've discovered that a key to happiness in teaching is remembering that we teachers are all in this together, and thus that it is in our best interest to support each other. So, as the track coach went around the table looking for a volunteer to help out as an official timer at the upcoming track meet, I couldn't say no.

It turned out to be a remarkable experience, the first of several track meets at which I had the privilege of timing this year. I learned something about the value of school spirit, and of having a sense of being a member of a team. I watched our small collection of students wander onto the field, some in old cross-country uniforms, some in their P.E. clothes, take a warm up lap, and do a bit of stretching. Then I saw our rivals, twice as large as us in number at least--all of them wearing smart green, brand new uniforms, clapping and chanting in unison as they spread out across the field to warm up. While the uniforms seemed to be making their first appearance at a track meet, the students certainly were not. They stretched together, chanting in unison as they did so, took a warm up lap, and listened to the direction and encouragement of their coach with a discipline I have not seen in middle school students. I saw in their eyes a certain pride in representing their school; I saw in their stride a determination to win.

Now, don't get me wrong--I was certainly not feeling any disloyalty to my own school. Simply learning what I could from our rivals. We have neither fancy new uniforms nor a full time coach, but certainly we could find a way to instill in our students the same pride in representing our school that I saw in the eyes of our rivals. And perhaps, with any luck, that feeling of pride, of belonging, of ownership, might spread from the track team to the soccer team, and from the soccer team to the whole school. That, more than anything, is what our school desperately needs--something around which the students (and the teachers, for that matter), can rally; something to create a sense of ownership and belonging; something to be proud of.


We certainly have the raw material for it. In spite of their full time coach and fancy uniforms, I took great satisfaction in noting that, at the League Finals, two of our seventh grade boys running the mile beat the fastest runner at our rival school by over ten seconds. Standing on the sideline, cheering them on with a few other teachers and parents, I felt had more meaning than all the lecturing I had done in the classroom that week. It is good to be a member of a team. For the students, and for the teachers. We all need to feel like we belong to something, that we are a part of something, and not that we simply show up each day to fill a desk or stand in front of a class. Track team, Academic Decathlon team, or simply a team of teachers working together, belonging makes all the difference.

Why I'm Still Here, or, Why the Rotten Apple Left on My Desk Doesn't Bother Me

I once seriously considered going to law school instead of becoming a teacher. There were many occasions early this school year that made me wonder if law school would not have been a better option. Though I still have difficult days, my thoughts of leaving the profession are now few and far between; I've even decided to stay at my current school--barring the arrival of a pink slip of paper in my mailbox later this month.

As I explained to my sixth period today, I'm still there because I care about them. Of course I got into teaching because I knew, deep within myself, that it was a part of my purpose--a part of who I am and what I am meant to do--but now I am also teaching because I care about these kids, and I want to see them succeed. If I didn't care, I told my students, I would probably have left sometime in November, and I'd be studying for the LSAT right now. I've recently realized that the challenge never was learning to love my students--it was learning to love them unconditionally, even when they don't seem to appreciate, and even seem to resent, all the work I do for them. I frequently have to remind myself that they are 11 or 12, and I am not--that in fact it is part of my job to help them acquire the social skills that will allow them to navigate the turbulent decade (or two) ahead of them.

I found recently some notes I jotted down in December, intending to post them here. The ideas seem to fit with this post:

December 18, 2008

A few good moments have occurred in the last couple of days, and I have to record them, in the interest of preserving hope for better times ahead.

Yesterday, I met with Felix* and his mother. Felix has typically been the student on the figurative back row, too cool for school, disrespectful, disruptive, mean to other kids, and always with a bad attitude. Whenever I suggested I might need to have a parent conference, he acted like he didn't care. Yesterday, though, I saw a different side of him during the conference with him and his mother. He was still all over the room, but he was behaving more like a hyperactive little boy than like the rebellious pre-adolescent I was accustomed to seeing in first period. He was more humble, teachable. He asked earnest questions about why he has to take medication. After my feeble attempt to break down psychopharmacology into 11-year-old terms, he said "Mr. D., I think the front part of my brain is busted." It felt good to be able to demystify the problem a little bit--to reassure him that he isn't broken or deffective, that his brain simply functions differently. I felt like I made an authentic connection with him, one I hadn't had before.

Today, I gave a mid-unit quiz. Alfredo stayed after class because he hadn't finished yet. In fact, he had barely gotten through the first two questions. I walked him through the quiz, one question at a time. I uncovered some of the difficulties he has when taking tests, and he had a chance to feel success in my classroom. That felt good, too.

And, even better, Joseph made an attempt at doing homework two nights in a row-- a personal record for him. He also managed to complete three quarters of the test. Grading only what he completed, he recieved a B-. I graded it in front of him after school. He said he'd never gotten a grade that high before. He doesn't like to show a lot of excitement about school, but I could tell he was pleased. Perhaps there is hope for me in this profession yet.

Those are the moments that have kept me in the classroom--those glimmers of hope that I can do some good, fueled by the fact that I so badly want to see these kids do well. It can be a challenge to keep that hope in view; even as I retype these notes from last December, I realize that I haven't built on these experiences, or maintained these connections, as I might have. The students still continue to struggle. They continue to act in ways that make it seem as if they didn't care. So when someone left an old, decaying apple on my desk this morning when I wasn't looking, it bothered me for a moment. Then I reminded myself that regardless of what these children do, what the need most is someone who will love and care for them in those moments they seem to deserve it the least. I'm finding that is seldom easy to do, but it's worth the struggle, and worth having to throw away a spoiled piece of fruit once in a while. I just hope whoever did it was clever enough to understand the more subtle irony of giving a rotten apple to the teacher.

Apparently I Need to Articulate More Clearly in the Classroom

This week we began studying the Gupta Empire, and ancient India's golden age. In order to help my students understand the concept of a "golden age," I had them draw pictures illustrating a golden age in an imaginary city or country. One of my students must have mis-heard or mis-understood the term golden age because this is what I received from her the next day:

It's an egg, in case you can't tell. A golden egg.