Thank you, class of 2021. Welcome, parents, educators, and Board members. As Mike introduced, I’m Amy Heusterberg-Richards -- also known here at Bay Port simply as HR. Some of you graduates might have been young learners in my Writing or Literary Analysis classes. Some of you might have written with me, app essays and more, last year in College & Career. And about 80 of wonderful you joined me this school year in IB English 12. I was up at this podium once before, though in the stuffy, crowded gym that time. The speech I offered to the Class of 2017 remarked about the beauty in revising -- a writing metaphor, of course. I asked those graduates to embrace change -- in their life plans, their own minds, their perceptions of other people. You all, though. You don’t need me to talk about revision. These past fifteen months, you’ve lived change. Your junior prom, your senior Homecoming, your extracurricular seasons, your Bay Port schedule... your interactions with teachers and friends and family. This ceremony. In our nation, you've experienced changes in leadership. You've seen people march in the streets for racial change and heard discussions assessing change in technology and media and justice and healthcare and climate and wages and so much more. Beyond this community and this country, our world has known a global change of millions of unexpected lost lives. You don’t need me to encourage you to try new experiences or consider new possibilities. One of the course norms you IB students wrote this September was the ideal to (quote) “create a place where vulnerability is celebrated.” So... I’m a little intimidated up here, this time, in truth. And I’m nervous that folks out there are taking expectant breaths hoping I do push or don't push for certain ideological change in this divided nation. I have hopes for your distant futures, but I’m not sure what they’ll look like. I have strived to help prepare you for them... but there are days, especially of late, that I wonder how much stamina I have left for this profession. Next month, next year, next decade fill my mind with question marks. So, how do I advise you in this moment? Fully vulnerable, here's what I can share -- not in predicting forward, as might be the usual in years unlike this one, but in reflecting back: When I first met many of you three years ago, I was deep in personal grief. My dad, a Vietnam Veteran, had just passed away from a rare and immediate heart attack attributed to Agent Orange. Whether you noticed or not, many of those days I could barely walk out my front door to come here to work. Right before my dad unexpectedly passed, he did a fairly typical thing as the family-centered handyman he was: He drove an hour to my house and, while Mr. Richards and I were overwhelmed with young children and long work hours, Dad finished winterizing our home. One specific help: he unhooked our garden hose and carried it from the backyard into storage in our basement. We buried him the afternoon of that season’s first freeze. In my darkest moments, I spent a lot of time sitting on a cold basement floor with that bright green, dad-placed coil of hose. Later I cuddled up on the basement stairs and looked at it. I could describe for you now every detail of its pattern, its dimples, its tarnished nozzle. Later still, in moments of heaviness as I moved within my house, I would pause to reflect on that hose while standing just outside the top basement door. And then I sat on the living room couch, a whole floor away, thinking of the garden hose and my loss of who last touched it -- sometimes still with tears. Other times, though, with smiles. This past school year, we have been deep in collective grief. We’re mourning our expectations of what these months might have looked like. The extra time we could have spent together face-to-smiling-face. We're mourning a colleague and teacher. Perhaps family members and certainly global neighbors. We’re mourning how we might have previously understood predictability... trust... civil discourse. Sometimes you can’t see beyond the darkness of such moments, think outside the basement. You struggle to imagine past the heaviness of grief to foresee a future without a beloved individual or an expected experience. You can’t grasp hold of a hope that feels far, far away. All you can first do sit in stillness. Cry. Yell. Frankly, feel whatever emotions you need -- without reservation, without judgement. Then, when you know it's time to continue -- and this time will always come, you proceed. You move off the basement floor and up a single stair with one. small. step. (My six-year-old would sing Anna’s “do the next right thing.”) But before Frozen II, novelist E. L. Doctorow suggested people think about life's challenges “like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make a whole trip that way." We might not know what world you, your children, or your grandchildren will inherit -- but in the next minute, the next hour, the next day... we can do “next steps” as intentionally and as courageously as we’re able. We won't move “on” from these challenging times, but I do know we can move forward. Seeing the small next parts on which our headlights shine, we can travel farther and farther down any road. And we can bring our memories and our growth and our life-lived wisdom with us. Your headlights shine next on leaving this ceremony. As you do that, thank those who have supported you, in the moments that went as planned and in the darker moments filled with “a hundred visions and revisions.” Tomorrow, whatever you may be up to, travel forward with the lessons these months have taught you: How to be brave. To think of others. Be creative. Adaptable. Silly, laughing when the absurdity of life doesn’t give clear answers. Remember, as you journey in the days beyond, that you won’t always be able to see your destinations clearly. Life will get hard again. But you’re here today. You’ve already navigated to this place. You can continue doing the next small thing and the next small thing and the next, following your headlights through any darkness. Small distance by small distance, you will again find yourselves in moments like this one on this field. You’ll feel satisfaction. Pride. Connections to those around you, regardless if you look or think or vote or worship similarly. At these destinations, also allow yourself to feel a giddy, childlike joy. Not the type that naively expects light to continue always. But the kind of joy that knows, step by step, you can lift yourself off any dark basement floor. From your entire academic careers and from these especially trying months, you’re wiser and you’re stronger. Greater still, you now possess the knowledge and the empathy to comfort others when they navigate with little light. If ever in doubt, there are next steps that will never steer you wrong: Quiet your own voice so there’s room for those other people’s. Remember you can’t know everything (and then trust the expertise of people whose experiences and education can guide you). Create and enjoy art. Talk with people more than about them. Eat delicious food. Notice & appreciate the overlooked but much-labored contributions of your peers. Travel. See potential in the unexpected. Push back against injustices and through the temptation to be a bystander. Hand-write your cards. As Frau would remind us, see the humanity in all the people with whom you share this community and this world. And, whenever the moment’s right: be vulnerable. My next step is to head home. Someday soon, in bright sunshine, I’ll smile as I hook Dad’s garden hose to a sprinkler in my backyard. Then I’ll watch my own children giggle and play over its now-opened coils. I promise to think of you and your futures in that moment that followed many small next steps. Congratulations, graduates. You deserve all the light of today. I’m honored to know you. I’m better from reading your words and hearing your ideas. I’m awed by the strength you’ve already shown. And I’m so so eager for the tomorrows you will create. "You [can] make this place beautiful," one small step at a time. Thank you.
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This article originally appeared as a guest post on Moving Writers. Last year my high school ELA department bravely ventured into semester-long, skill-focused classes. Our previous survey courses -- with their daunting challenge to know and grow students’ writing, speaking, and analyzing skills -- morphed into courses that, while still integrating all the English discipline, provide feedback with focus. With supportive teammates alongside of me, I now teach Writing to sophomores. The class is not writing about that one book, for that one speech, or on that one teacher prompt. It is simply and beautifully writing -- guided by mentors, focused on craft, and about student-selected subjects. Except, last week. Last week we wrote about parent-selected topics. After a conversation with a department mate and fellow mom about the opportunities that our children’s elementary school provides parents to get involved, I paused. My son’s kindergarten teacher invites me to join her at holiday parties, in decorating gingerbread houses, in providing reusable Earth Day materials, and more. She weekly updates on class-happenings through a newsletter and periodically posts photos to an e-portfolio. As a mom, I’m eager to know and support my son’s learning. I’m excited to join in when able and know what questions to ask at the dinner table. As a teacher, I’ve realized, I’m not providing equal information and opportunities to my own learners’ parents. Enter: the parent-selected topics. Having seen last semester’s students struggle to define physical traits and abstract concepts in their writing, I shared with and called on their parents. Like me, most were eager to support. Here’s the email I sent home: Dear Parent/Guardian, As part of our expository writing studies in Writing class this semester, students will be composing practice definition paragraphs in which they capture the essence of an item/place/idea. To transition students from describing physical traits to analyzing abstract qualities, I would like to enlist your help. If you are able, please send an object or photo of sentimental value with your child to class. Items could include, but are not limited to: a favorite childhood toy, an award/trophy, an old outfit, a family tradition momento, a picture of a special place, etc. Ideally, your son/daughter will not know what item you send until class. To maintain this secrecy, please place the item in a brown bag, seal it, and label with your child’s name and “Mrs. HR.” The bag can be dropped off at the front desk of the school or simply sent along with your student to Writing class. (Please keep in mind that these objects may not have the gentlest of travels, so it would be in your best interest to not send anything valuable/breakable.) As we will be opening and defining the items on DATE, please send your item by DATE. Thank you for supporting our writing practices! If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to call (###-###-####) or email. And the brown paper bags poured in. Students, equal parts intrigued and confused, delivered mysterious packages they were instructed not to open. The front desk, all parts wonderful and supportive, emailed “there’s another one!” more times than I had hoped. In the days before Opening Day, classes checked and checked again: when would we be learning about those bagged items? As anticipation built, we practiced defining physical and abstract traits through small writing exercises, like this food approach and through this mentoring. We discussed writers’ inclusion of imagery to share tangible details and their employment of analogies to present abstract concepts. Reading and annotating the following excerpt about sentimentality toward a grandmother’s pin (from ”Charmed Objects” by Nancy Eimers), we observed that definition writers tend to first begin with denotative understandings, move to imagery of physical features, and conclude with sentimental abstractions. ...I remember a gaudy, jeweled pin worn by my grandmother. I say “gaudy,” but I didn’t think it was gaudy then. Costume jewelry is made of less valuable materials including base metals, glass, plastic, and synthetic stones, in place of more valuable materials such as precious metals and gems, explains Wikipedia helpfully. But I hadn’t read and wouldn’t have been helped by this sentence then. The jewels, their blue and pink sparkles, enchanted me. They seemed almost to say, there is this other world. The pin is lost forever, like Dorothy’s ruby slippers somewhere between Oz and Kansas. But I feel the pull of a former feeling, not subject to reason, proportion, knowledge of anything likely/unlikely to happen. In memory, where I am holding it in my hand, the invented and the real haven’t quite parted ways. You can’t get beauty. Still, says Jean Valentine, in its longing it flies to you. I think this will not be an argument but a meditation—held together by asterisks, little stars—on how charmed objects, long lost, come back sometimes in poetry, present only as words, touchstone, rabbit’s foot, amulet, merrythought, calling us back, calling us forth. What are they, now that we’ve lost them?... (From “Charmed Objects” by Nancy Eimers) Finally, with the energy of young children on birthdays, the students opened their bags (or this one) in class. There were some giggles and tears. There were many smiles and stories. And, most importantly, there was much thoughtful, passionate writing defining physical traits and sentimental connections. With the permission of student Indira, here is one such piece on a childhood Bratz doll: ...I think back to the plethora of beautiful, cartoon-like dolls I owned as a child. Although beautiful, they were quite unrealistic, something I didn’t mind back then. Bratz Dolls are fashion dolls designed with exaggerated features, typically marketed towards children, explains a website helpfully. But this meant nothing to me back then. Their large eyes and large lips presented to me an inspiration of sorts for what I wished to be when I grew up. They dazzled me, made me believe that type of beauty was attainable. And more than that they allowed me to create a life so different from my own and in a way live through them. It was as if they spoke to me of a different life, they were the shooting star I never saw. Some of their makeup wore off from years of being in sweaty palms and most were without shoes. Now those dolls, however, are in some other child's play bin, their wonders forever lost to me. But at times I do find myself yearning for that escapism. For me, they were a mirage in the desert, a happy distraction from the heat. They muted the glaring sounds beyond my door. People grow up, and I know that, but why must happiness be a childhood memory? As a young girl, they don’t tell you-you can’t keep your stuffed animals or children's books or dolls. If I had been warned of this loss when I was younger I would have wished every night for a Peter Pan to appear at my window and whisk me away. So at times without reason or logic, my mind simply wonders through nostalgia whenever I find myself dreaming and cannot find an outlet for my thoughts. I feel as if this is not merely a reflection but a remembrance of sorts, one pieced together by delicate words and dazzling descriptions, about the many things we lose in life yet still in some way maintain. Now those dolls give joy to someone else and I cannot help but wonder if they too cannot help but be enchanted by their beauty and the dreams they bring to life. Like all early versions of compositions and classes, my team and I will revise our approaches to our new Writing course many times over. This activity, though -- especially its inclusion of the authors of my students’ own lives -- will be material I am sure to keep in the years to come. - Amy I’ve been feeling, of late, insignificant to my own classroom. Not to my students, not to their learning, but to others’ expectations of me -- the educator. If I select a mentor text, analysis topic, or plan a learning experience, I feel almost like I’ve done something wrong, like I’m now one of those old-fashioned and ineffective teachers complained about in social media threads. Perhaps the engagement level in my room was near-perfection and the students’ energy was palpable, yet focused. Perhaps the students sat in their seats, contemplating staying when the bell rang. Perhaps my smile was at its max from insights and ideas in discussion. If the topic choice was mine or the pace predetermined, I feel like I’ve failed. I’ve selected the wrong side in the current educational debate over the role of the teacher. I must singularly decide: Am I a sage on stage or a guide on the side? Am I a person leading or a leader personalizing? Do I contain the knowledge or do I push the pursuit?
My IB English students are currently reading Toni Morrison’s Sula -- a text I selected from a prescribed book list written by the International Baccalaureate organization. Throughout our studies, I do not offer my own interpretation of the text but I do design discussions, thinking activities, stylistic writing prompts, etc. to lead students’ studies. I also run discussion-heavy classes to prepare students for a set interview-like assessment at the end of their studies, one that counts toward potential college-credit. While I picked the novel, the students own its interpretation. Each year during our studies of Sula, with my indirect guidance, IB English seniors discuss the reliability -- or, more specifically, lack thereof -- in approaching life’s elements as one of two possibilities. They tend to believe that neither Sula nor Nel, the novel’s protagonists, can be good or evil -- as the other characters suggest. This year, to the delight of my literary heart, John Green published a Crash Course Literature video on the novel pursuing similar thoughts. In his video commentary, Green describes Morrison as asking readers to “reconsider assumptions that emerge from binary thinking.” He notes that in such thoughts “one term tends to dominate -- to be privileged” over the other. In this spirit and with consideration to my feelings of insignificance, I want to challenge current conversations about educators. Why must I be one role or the other? I want to teach as a sage on the side -- when it’s best of the learners. I want to guide from the “stage” -- when it’s best for the learners. I want to personalize student learning -- when it’s best for the learners. I want to learn about students as people -- when it’s best for the learners. I want to help students master content -- when it’s best for the learners. I want to be adored and a friend -- when it’s best for the learners. I want to be respected and a mentor -- when it’s best for the learners. I want to be all the roles I can be and take all the approaches I can take -- for the best of my learners Why must I choose to be on the side or in the center to my students’ learning ? Why can’t I -- as challenging an endeavor as I can imagine -- be committedly central to it? - Amy The following is the staff address I gave at the 2017 Bay Port High School graduation. When I began my first draft of this speech, I intended to poetically weave together great observations about life found in the novels I studied with many of you in D108 during ELA3 or IB English 12. My mind moved first to The Great Gatsby and Fitzgerald’s beautiful imagery to describe... the valley of ashes, an entrapment of poverty... I quickly realized that well, most of the novels we read together are not the most thematically uplifting. The stories center around destructive firefighters, disenfranchised prep-school-dropouts, guilt-ridden imperialists, and death... by speeding cars... and by poisoned swords... and at the hands of demons... and in flooded tunnels... and... well, you get the idea. These themes weren’t guides for what to do with your lives -- they were cautionary messages, not grand send-offs into bright futures. Writing, though, is a process and early drafts are never failures. They are instead opportunities to reflect and materials to revise. So, in lieu of discussing great works already written, the work of writing will guide my message. (I’m an English teacher. Puns and metaphors are my jam -- you had to have seen this coming). The work of writing is invigorating and exhausting, frustrating and fulfilling, perplexing and amazing. The work of writing makes your hands hurt and your brain search constantly for meaning. The work of writing is a lot like life. As a parent, I know the writing of your stories started as the drafting of many novels does: There were sleepless nights, nervous ambitions, and containers and containers of coffee. Even if your parents composed perfect outlines of how you would grow and whom you would become, plot twists occurred. Like unsure authors inviting in outside readers for the first time, they breathed deeply as little you rode that big yellow bus to new experiences and influences. Pens were passed between teachers, coaches, advisors, scout leaders, dance instructors, community members, and friends. The compositions of you -- individually in those seats -- and collectively as a class -- developed each day, ever more complicated and ever more beautiful. Then, in the drop of ink blot, here you sit: capped, gowned, and grown. Ray Bradbury opens Fahrenheit 451 with a writing quote that instructs “when they give you ruled paper, write the other way.” Most readers, like many of you former ELA3 students, understand this epigraph to encourage rebellion, prompting readers to stand up to people who would exploit us for their own sakes. I accept this interpretation, but today would like to extend it. Perhaps writing “the other way,” offers less about breaking limits and more about not limiting ourselves. As I was oft to tell you in class, write the best composition possible in the best way you can. As you grow into the future, write the best you in whatever ways you need. Do not confine your ideas to a single, set structure. While the five-paragraph is sometimes expected and the black pen (non-gel form, IBers) is often prescribed, whenever you can: write an original expression. Your thoughts need not develop within a word count. Your accomplishments will not be assessed with a rubric. Think boldly. Act daringly. Though the sky-blue lines on your notebook paper will always run in the same direction, doodle across them like Wade drawing sharks on an in-class essay. In a world that seems to be run by products and paychecks, graduates: be someone who breaks into verse using a purple pen, simply because you want to. Yes, leave here being “college and career ready.” Yes, have a plan for what you will study, where you will work, and how you will serve. There will always be bills to pay. But, please, remember to be world-ready, too. Be passionate. Be quirky. Be kind. Produce things that will never earn you money -- smiles in a stranger, art for art’s sake, a letter of appreciation to one of those people surrounding you today -- a family or friend who has carefully selected the perfect words to guide you, the best diction to teach you. Their hands were cramping, their eyes were tired... but they keep writing -- hoping to develop an exceptional character. And, write yourselves beyond the expected rules of your papers. More concisely: be beyond the expected. I’m a teacher who adores cradling a beautiful book and a warm cup of coffee... in hands taught by my carpenter father to measure, cut, nail, sand, and stain. I married a football player studying business at a small university -- the ultimate unoriginal combination -- who loves yoga and a good cry over This Is Us. You can be the lawyer who yodels, the nurse who skydives, the mechanic who recites poetry. The structure in which you choose to best develop yourselves should have no limitations. Write the other way. As I conclude -- feeling proud to know you, once seniors, now alums -- and honored to be speaking on your behalf, I’d like to leave with final advice from the writers by whom I am the most inspired: you. I estimate I’ve had the honor to write alongside about half of you and I’d like to offer you some insights you shared in those well-revised personal statements or those bravely pursued Human Experience reflections: Like Brandon, learning to fish with Dad: leverage yourself against life’s large tugs with all the counterweight of family and friends you can muster. Like Caleb, rushing off the bus to build a tree fort amidst chirping birds and wind-brushed leaves: have patience and work ethic to complete what you begin. Like Danny, warmed by heat radiating from an airplane on the busiest runway in the world: feel charged by your passions. Like Kayla, writing letters to reflect on the loss a loved one, have the courage to confront life’s moments of sadness and confusion. Like Lizzy, a bold girl jumping off a lighthouse into Lake Superior, leap past anyone who may prevent your successes. Like Chris and Gavin, journaling through life choices different than their own, approach the unknown by asking questions, not making judgements. And like Shae and Lindsay, rediscovering a friendship and passion once lost in kindergarten, do not limit the power of your creativity. Write the other way. Best of luck as you plan, revise, and compose your incredible futures and selves. I’m already proud. Thank you and congratulations. -Amy This article originally appeared as a guest post on Moving Writers. My fifth-grade Social Studies teacher had a head of hair that rivaled those of Michael Bolton and Kenny G (musical studs of the time), making him the subject of more than one conversation between my classmates’ mothers. He had an acoustic guitar on which he played historical ballads and an impressive collection of obnoxious ties. An apparent pioneer in flexible seating, he had a reading loft and colorful bean bag chairs, over both of which we students often fought. All these glorious items aside, though, the possessions I most remember from Mr. Weitzel’s school domain were his classroom walls, spaces filled with explorers’ names, vocabulary terms, and worldly locations. At the beginning of the school year, the walls were unimpressive, white blocks spattered with grey smudges and sticky, tape residue. Come June, however, they transformed into an exhibition of all the learning we students had accomplished. I remember sitting at my desk those last days and feeling a proud satisfaction of all the terms I had acquired, all the people and places I could now discuss. Mr. Weitzel, as primary school teachers perhaps best understand, knew the impact these Word Walls had on the development of his students. He used his walls to physicalize terms, to track concepts, and to serve as reference documents. He skipped posters to motivate and instead posted words to guide. This school year in our tenth-grade Writing course, my teammates and I decided to re-write the seemingly elementary Word Wall concept at our secondary level. We knew we wanted to begin our class with an exploration of -- to borrow language from Stephen King’s On Writing -- the “tools” of effective craft. We selected five elements of voice (diction, syntax, imagery, inclusion/exclusion of details, and tone) which we felt we could use in all upcoming writing studies. We also decided, in the spirit of the Word Wall, to post visuals of each tool on our own walls for “Writing Well.” For each writing tool, we asked students to define the device and study a teacher-selected mentor text whose purpose was twofold: The excerpt from King’s On Writing (chapter one of the “Toolbox” section) described how to select vocabulary, but students also discussed how King employed the diction tool himself; Anne Lamott’s “Short Assignments” from Bird by Bird advised how to include/exclude details, but the class analyzed how her writing gave/withheld information with intent, too. After exploring such mentor texts by writers-on-writing, we asked students to discuss additional examples of each tool’s use in groups and practice writing these devices in pairs. Ultimately, we ended each two-day, tool study with an individual activity that prompted students to intentionally use the element of craft to write well and, at the same time, to produce a visual to adorn our Writing Well Wall.
The entire study of these five writing tools took the initial two weeks of our course. In that short time, our Writing students studied, practiced, and mimicked the craftsmanship of strong writers at a wonderfully tangible level. They created a wall full of examples showcasing the tools used to produce effective craft. Greater even still, they developed testimonies to themselves that they can control, at this most focused level, the sometimes daunting tasks needed to write effectively. As we move on to more challenging topics, more developed essays, and longer revision periods, I hope my students feel a comforting satisfaction -- not unlike the one fifth-grade me experienced -- as they sit aside a Writing Well Wall that reminds them with each glance that they can use -- and have used -- the tools of powerful writers. - Amy This blog post originally appeared in Edutopia's Community Discussions. When I cuddle up with a good book these evenings, a four-year-old -- warming his toes in the crooks of my knees and quizzing me for comprehension with questions -- is always present too. My leisurely reading has become most characterized by an abundance of colorful pictures and an array of anthropomorphic objects -- donuts solving mysteries and mother bunnies quieting little ones, to name a few. Perhaps a disappointment to my former self, I still haven’t opened the new novel by Safran Foer, but I have re-read and re-read Sandra Boughton. Just like bedtime, children’s books have seeped into my high-level IB English Literature course these days, too. My advanced students are less concerned with how the sprinkles stay on Arnie the Donut, but do find themselves discussing other components of these seemingly simple texts to build their studies and practice their approaches. Here’s how I’ve used children’s literature in my classroom since its takeover of my literary habits:
- Amy The other night, I stumbled upon a hashtag trend that inspired me. The #ObserveMe movement began with a blog posted by http://robertkaplinsky.com/observeme/ who recognized teachers who placed signs on their doors to encourage feedback. Kaplinsky tweeted his own sign, and a community of educators responded. Thus began the #ObserveMe movement. Around the world, teachers posted a sign on their classroom doors with an invitation for colleagues, administration, and guests to enter, observe, and offer feedback. I listened, too. I was ready. I hesitated for only a moment, concerned about the few competitive colleagues who might see the sign as a way to improve myself in the domain of educator effectiveness evaluations. I ignored them in favor of the supportive peers who I knew would celebrate the idea immediately. I made my sign. Then I reconsidered. I am comfortable whenever colleagues, administration, and guests visit my classroom. However, I never really considered that they were there to solely observe me, to evaluate me. I thought they were there to see learning in action. When someone enters my classroom, I might be indistinguishable from the students because I sit with them at their desks, give them the platform in front of the room, and offer them space to move around. Observers might misunderstand why I allow the girl in the corner of the room to be on her phone because they will not know her request to have quiet time to sort through emotional turmoil from the morning at home. Viewers might question why the student in the front of the room gets passed over whenever he raises his hand to speak, but they will not know that he is working on his ability to listen instead of his tendency to talk. A snapshat of a classroom period could not possibly reveal the weeks of gradual release of responsibility that occur so that students can effortlessly lead the conversation or quickly respond to prompts. A one day viewing will not recognize the interactions and connections and dynamics that happened yesterday which impact the lesson today. Therefore, and with all due respect to Mr. Kaplinsky, I want to build off his hashtag to start another. Welcome to our classroom, and observe us. Better yet, welcome to our classroom, and enter into our realm of learning. Spark up a conversation with a student, flip through the pages of the book on the desk, participate in the discussion, and volunteer to help during task time. I hope you will see me as teacher fielding questions, integrating technology, checking for understanding, and responding to student needs, but more than that, I hope you see learners asking questions, discussing topics, and thinking together. So, yes, welcome inside any time, but don’t come to #ObserveMe; I am not the most important person in the room. Instead, observe us in space where we laugh, converse, move, make, create, collaborate, and connect. Actually, do more than just observe us. #JoinUs -VickiThis blog post originally appeared in Edutopia's Community Discussions.
At the risk of ostracizing any colleagues currently struggling with flat-discussion classrooms -- trust me, I’ve been there, too -- I’d like to admit that D108 is anything but quiet this year. My advanced seniors, in particular, can fill entire periods with their own excited voices. They discuss the craftsmanship of author style, the implications of context on content, and the ambiguities of our current texts (as well as Harambe, the gorilla -- he oddly comes up in conversation often, too). My co-teacher of the course and I work hard -- with socratic seminars, philosopher’s chairs, interpretation circles, and countless back-channels (to name a few approaches) -- to create such student-led, discussion-heavy rooms. The students become wonderfully confident and expertly articulate speakers, and I smile proudly when enveloped by their booming voices during our class- and group- discussions. Recently, though, these students’ self-reflections after a practice oral exam offered a perspective that reminds me that, especially in education, there is always room for growth. One reflection spoke of the student beginning to respond before realizing what a prompt even asked. Another student noted her “head couldn’t keep up with her mouth” in her recording. Throughout the reflections, the same voices clamouring for turns to talk in class told me: we can speak well, but we could listen better. Deep listening is a technique beautifully rooted in American traditions like the Quaker faith and various Native tribes. (It does not, perhaps, show itself well in Presidential debates or Congressional hearings.) At its core, deep listening entails listening over hearing and connecting over responding. In relationships, deep listening means acknowledging others’ emotions so they feel heard. In careers, deep listening means developing productive, honest communication by listening to understand, not merely to reply. In my classroom, deep listening can mean students better know each other’s ideas and therefore better know our studies. It can mean a more inclusive atmosphere where all voices feel respected and where moments of silence are welcome. Here are five activities I plan to implement in my own classroom -- that any teacher of any discipline can use -- in order to promote deeper listening in our academic discussions:
This blog post also appeared in the IB Community Blog high-lighting student success in the Diploma Programme.
1. What is one of your favorite technology tools to use in the classroom? Why? AMY RICHARDS: Padlet is a great, quick board for posting student-generated research, responses, and anything really. Get Coffee works nicely for group discussions; students can propose questions and the questions can be then inputted into the generator quickly. I especially like Get Coffee as a means to practice the on-the-spot, effective responses needed for the IB English HLD. VICKI QUINN: One of my favorite tools is a simple one: Google Drive. I ask students to use Google Docs to work with students on the process with writing and on the collaboration of ideas. For example, I can assign a presentation-based project where students collect, organize, and then present information in a collaborative Google Presentation file or I can assign a passage typed up in a Google Document and ask individuals in the classroom to collectively annotate it at the same time. 2. How has the increased use of technology encouraged inquiry-based learning for your students? AMY RICHARDS: Technology offers extra avenues for students to generate ideas, both individually and collectively. Our classrooms, then, consist of student voices sharing, questioning, and building upon these shared thoughts. My voice, at least when directed to the entire class, is heard much less these days. Most days the technology on which students gathered ideas is up -- both on individual Macbook screens as well as on the classroom whiteboard -- and students are discussing with and adding to one another’s inquiries. VICKI QUINN: Our society is moving towards a demand of innovation and the 5Cs (Communication, Collaboration, Citizenship, Creativity, Critical Thinking). Our IB classroom existed in that sphere already, but access to technology has encouraged our use of inquiry-based learning for our students because now we can ask students to communicate in digital educational blogs where they share their creativity, we can ask students to practice “net-etiquette” and ability to be digital citizens in forums about literature, we can deliver flipped instruction via podcasts, streaming video, and internet-based presentations, we engage them through problem-solving activities and projects using various Web 2.0 tools, and we can foster a community of learners who value and want to improve fundamental skills of reading and writing. 3. What's the biggest challenge in increasing technology usage in the classroom? AMY RICHARDS: At the start, it was tempting to find new technology tools while excitedly wondering: “how can these be included in students’ learning?” Now, we develop the learning experience first and then search for technology to potentially assist. The challenge at first was to remember that technology is a tool with which to learn; it should not the central focus. Currently, the challenge is to find technology that functions like we want it to. For instance, I recently wanted a platform on which students could easily annotate a poetic text heavy in imagery with their own ideas, images, and audio. I struggled to find the right tech. Ultimately, I used Genuis’ Embed feature on a webpage I created. VICKI QUINN: It is challenging to keep up with technology and the best practices use of it in the classroom. It is challenging to keep students interested in a digital learning experience when there are so many technology-based distractors for them in the same platform. What I have learned is that using technology effectively in the classroom is dependent on facilitators who can inspire and motivate learners in a purposeful and guided digital experience. Incorporating technology depends upon the development of engaging material and then the opportunity for students to explore, create, communicate, collaborate, and think in web-based classroom environments. As someone who has tried to implement a blended classroom experience for my students, I have learned an essential component of E-learning: it still requires the art of teaching. |
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