The Ninth Grade is most of the way through a seminar in “History Through Art.” The distinction between this study and “art history” is that we take sculptures and paintings to be symbolic of changes in human evolution. By interpreting works of art, we can chart the development of the human species.
Cave paintings, for example, are often surrounded by a black “action line” or outline, the first outlines in human history. Imagine the power of a mind that could say for the first time, “everything inside this line is elk; everything outside it is the rest of creation.” The outline does not exist in nature – there is only fur and grass and air. The line is an abstraction, a product of the artist’s mind. To be able to see the world this way marks a significant step toward human separation from the cosmos. Because to be able to make an outline that acknowledges a distinction in the world, we must tacitly acknowledge our own distinction from the world. The outlines around cave paintings are as resonant as the story of Adam and Eve, cast out of paradise, but taking a step toward the possibility of freedom.
Thousands of years later, Rembrandt’s self-portraits show evidence of the same process. Self-portraits in Rembrandt’s time were innovative, not 200 years old. In the “School of Athens,” Raphael timidly inserts himself in a corner of the painting, peeking out at us. Rembrandt paints himself unapologetically, over and over, appraising the course of his life, from newly-wed swashbuckler to impoverished old man. Not only does he have a self, separate from everyone else, but he has a self worth showing the world, a self balanced in paint between external appearance—every wrinkle and pouch—and inner life.
Two examples make a complex evolution seem too linear. But the more important question regards us, here, today. If human beings have evolved toward freedom (as Gruber says, freedom is the immediate, necessary link between creativity and morality), where do we stand? Ask the Ninth Graders; they’ll be thinking about it.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
Everybody and Nobody
“Everyone in the 9th grade was out of control today.” In my first year of teaching, I had had it with 9th grade shenanigans. I walked into the Faculty Room and spouted hyperbole, looking for sympathy.
“Really? Everyone? What about Beth?” Al Tomlinson had been teaching for forty years; he had been one of my teachers. He was jovial and imperturbable.
“No, I guess not.”
“And Rob?”
“No.”
“So not everyone. How many?”
“Well… Michael and Nick. And Simone was annoying.”
“That’s it? Three? Aren’t there twenty-four in the class?”
“Um, yes.”
He’d made his point. Many teachers do this, describe a class as “out of control,” when, really, most of the students are trying hard to behave, and only one or two students can’t control themselves. Or, rather, are controlling themselves in a way designed to irritate a new teacher and amuse themselves and the class. (Students who actually can’t control themselves are pretty rare, and it’s part of a teacher’s job to learn how to manage or discipline a class so that children feel secure—“secure” means, in its roots, “without care”—enough to be in control of themselves, but that’s a subject for another time.)
Students succumb more readily to the same generalizing tendency: “Everybody else has a laptop. Everybody eats junk food all the time. Everybody’s parents let them drink. Everybody’s parents let them to stay up until midnight on school nights, out until 2 a.m. on weekends. Everybody smokes dope. Everybody dresses like that. Nobody does their homework. Nobody likes Mrs. Costigan. Nobody likes me. Nobody cares if I don’t do my homework. Nobody comes to school on time.” They are young. They are learning the differences between themselves and the world, and they set these two as equal and opposite; they don’t yet see themselves, often, as one individual in a sea of individuals. Rather, they see only themselves and the world, the “not-themselves.”
Parents listen to their children, sometimes too readily. What other source of information do they have? Annual or twice annual parent-teacher meetings? Infrequent phone conversations with a teacher, or chance meetings in the parking lot? Parents talk to each other, and that can help. But if each one is informed by a child or a teenager, the reliability of their information may be skewed.
Also, parents—even parents like me who have taught teenagers for more than twenty years—may be too sympathetic to their own children. In fact, I developed a theory a while ago that parents pass through a second childhood and adolescence with their children. At times, talking to the parents of a third grader is like talking to a large, mature, intelligent, but emotional third grader.
Parents, rightly, take to heart what their children experience and report, lopsided as this may be. Teachers can help them, and help themselves, in two ways: First, while acknowledging and respecting student and parent experience (we can’t deny the emotions that others feel, much as we may not like them), we can offer simple facts. Fewer than half the students have laptops. Most students eat healthy snacks. Most parents don’t let their children drink alcohol. Average bedtime is 10 o’clock on school nights and midnight on weekends. And so on. The myths are endless and demythologizing is a constant practice.
Second and perhaps better, we can get parents together for structured discussions about these topics—computer use, bedtime and sleep, parties, drugs and alcohol, clothing. Parents will quickly find allies and learn that they are not alone in this business of raising their children.
“Really? Everyone? What about Beth?” Al Tomlinson had been teaching for forty years; he had been one of my teachers. He was jovial and imperturbable.
“No, I guess not.”
“And Rob?”
“No.”
“So not everyone. How many?”
“Well… Michael and Nick. And Simone was annoying.”
“That’s it? Three? Aren’t there twenty-four in the class?”
“Um, yes.”
He’d made his point. Many teachers do this, describe a class as “out of control,” when, really, most of the students are trying hard to behave, and only one or two students can’t control themselves. Or, rather, are controlling themselves in a way designed to irritate a new teacher and amuse themselves and the class. (Students who actually can’t control themselves are pretty rare, and it’s part of a teacher’s job to learn how to manage or discipline a class so that children feel secure—“secure” means, in its roots, “without care”—enough to be in control of themselves, but that’s a subject for another time.)
Students succumb more readily to the same generalizing tendency: “Everybody else has a laptop. Everybody eats junk food all the time. Everybody’s parents let them drink. Everybody’s parents let them to stay up until midnight on school nights, out until 2 a.m. on weekends. Everybody smokes dope. Everybody dresses like that. Nobody does their homework. Nobody likes Mrs. Costigan. Nobody likes me. Nobody cares if I don’t do my homework. Nobody comes to school on time.” They are young. They are learning the differences between themselves and the world, and they set these two as equal and opposite; they don’t yet see themselves, often, as one individual in a sea of individuals. Rather, they see only themselves and the world, the “not-themselves.”
Parents listen to their children, sometimes too readily. What other source of information do they have? Annual or twice annual parent-teacher meetings? Infrequent phone conversations with a teacher, or chance meetings in the parking lot? Parents talk to each other, and that can help. But if each one is informed by a child or a teenager, the reliability of their information may be skewed.
Also, parents—even parents like me who have taught teenagers for more than twenty years—may be too sympathetic to their own children. In fact, I developed a theory a while ago that parents pass through a second childhood and adolescence with their children. At times, talking to the parents of a third grader is like talking to a large, mature, intelligent, but emotional third grader.
Parents, rightly, take to heart what their children experience and report, lopsided as this may be. Teachers can help them, and help themselves, in two ways: First, while acknowledging and respecting student and parent experience (we can’t deny the emotions that others feel, much as we may not like them), we can offer simple facts. Fewer than half the students have laptops. Most students eat healthy snacks. Most parents don’t let their children drink alcohol. Average bedtime is 10 o’clock on school nights and midnight on weekends. And so on. The myths are endless and demythologizing is a constant practice.
Second and perhaps better, we can get parents together for structured discussions about these topics—computer use, bedtime and sleep, parties, drugs and alcohol, clothing. Parents will quickly find allies and learn that they are not alone in this business of raising their children.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
A Teacher’s Life
Usually when I bolt awake in the middle of the night, it’s because something is troubling me about my relationship with someone else—an unresolved problem with a student or colleague or parent or spouse or child. Last night I couldn’t sleep because of the simple fullness of my day, the sheer number and variety of persons and contacts and communications from fourteen hours on the go. Unusually full, but nothing unusually troubling—par for the course. And, really, many teachers handle more than this on many days.
I lie awake, reviewing the day; the persons, issues, ideas, demands, spool past me again and again. I meet four colleagues in the office to start the day, catching up on news—I was absent on Friday, a physics experiment set the fire alarm off, no one called the fire department, and very soon the school was full of firepersons and police persons. Today, the fire inspector is walking around with our buildings and grounds supervisor (a parent volunteer). The husband of a colleague will pick up a loom that’s been donated to the school. Financial aid forms, delayed from last week, will go out in today’s mail.
I teach two math classes in the morning—algebra 1 and algebra 2—at my tiny high school, to a total of nine students. Each class involves conversation with each student. One asks for a “kick start” to remember which buttons to push on the calculator. Two need help with the giggles. One can barely stay awake. One wants to know what I was like at his age. One wants to review why negative exponents are fractions. One shares a pastry with the class.
Then I attend our daily Morning Meeting, in which all the members of our school—25 students and teachers—greet each other, shake hands, hear news of the day, and recite the beginning of Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” together. A handshake and some eye contact are a great way to assess each student’s presence, and, also, it’s good to see them.
I spend the rest of the morning in the office with our office assistant, the telephone, and email. This adds one face-to-face relationship and a dozen others with parents, strangers, graduate students, and colleagues at the graduate school at which I also teach. Three want updates on my progress reading thesis drafts. I get to email another to tell him his thesis is finally accepted, after four drafts. I’m invited to conference in Turkey in October. I imagine myself in Istanbul; I like it.
I meet a friend for lunch, director of an educational institute, to talk about a long-term research project that we’re planning. We run through where we’ve been, and look ahead to the politics of implementing the project. This talk is nitty-gritty and not as much fun as giving our ideas free rein. I run into four other friends and acquaintances; I live in a small town.
I drive to the theater where our students are rehearsing “The Tempest.” I sit with our director and watch the scene in which Caliban emerges from his cave, threatening and cursing Prospero, and leering after Miranda. Prospero instructs Ariel. The boy playing Prospero has enlisted in the army, a first in my years of teaching. The other students love and support him, but also question his decision. As Prospero, his care for his daughter and his power over Ariel and Caliban seem extra weighty, knowing that in a few months he’ll report for duty. Caliban is waiting for news of college acceptance. Ariel is heading to Germany for an internship in a few weeks, and plays her part like a teacher. Miranda is brilliant and sophisticated and charming; she is not typecast, and needs to act younger and more foolish. This is my favorite of all plays. My mother’s middle name was Miranda, and my daughter’s middle name is Ariel. I give notes and have to go.
I go home for a late second lunch with my son, who is home from college for midterm break. He’s barely awake, and we talk about articles he’s writing for campus publications. Then back to school for a faculty meeting with five teachers, discussing three students who face real challenges in life or school. One will be put on probation and be required to attend counseling to remain in school for the rest of the year. One has passed a drug test and seems on the straight and narrow. One is so thin-skinned that the wrong joke sends him into a rage, a rage that he shows to no one at school but vents at home. And then we hear from his parents. We organize internships, discuss our computer policy (kids spending too much free time on YouTube), and look at the schedule for the weeks ahead.
I drive to the local bike shop for the first group ride of the season, 20 miles in a paceline with 14 other riders, many of whom I know and chat with. Others I meet for the first time. It’s great to feel the cold wind and hear the crunch of gravel under our tires and the clicking of freewheels.
I change and return to school for a parents’ evening, two hours with a lengthy agenda, from the mundane—“please be sure your students are on time and that they bring their supplies with them to school each day”—to the difficult—updating parents on our revised drug and alcohol policy and discussing recent events with them. We’ve had one student withdraw rather than enter a process that would likely result in her expulsion from school for drug use; rumors are flying, and it’s difficult to put them to rest while respecting appropriate confidentiality and the family’s privacy.
After the meeting, three parents want to speak privately. One, the mother of the angry boy, schedules a meeting for later in the week. I go home, it’s 10 p.m., and my wife is asleep already. I inhale some chili—a bad idea; no wonder I’m awake now. I say goodnight to my son, and crawl into bed. Three hours later, here I am.
Removing overlaps, I spoke to about 80 different people today, more than usual, most of them face-to-face, a few on the phone. I knew most of them. About one-third were students, one-third were colleagues or parents, and one-third were friends. I sent about a dozen email messages, far fewer than usual. A good day, busier than most; no tragedies, no epiphanies. Few things finished or threads cut, just moving that rock up that hill, Sisyphus.
I lie awake, reviewing the day; the persons, issues, ideas, demands, spool past me again and again. I meet four colleagues in the office to start the day, catching up on news—I was absent on Friday, a physics experiment set the fire alarm off, no one called the fire department, and very soon the school was full of firepersons and police persons. Today, the fire inspector is walking around with our buildings and grounds supervisor (a parent volunteer). The husband of a colleague will pick up a loom that’s been donated to the school. Financial aid forms, delayed from last week, will go out in today’s mail.
I teach two math classes in the morning—algebra 1 and algebra 2—at my tiny high school, to a total of nine students. Each class involves conversation with each student. One asks for a “kick start” to remember which buttons to push on the calculator. Two need help with the giggles. One can barely stay awake. One wants to know what I was like at his age. One wants to review why negative exponents are fractions. One shares a pastry with the class.
Then I attend our daily Morning Meeting, in which all the members of our school—25 students and teachers—greet each other, shake hands, hear news of the day, and recite the beginning of Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” together. A handshake and some eye contact are a great way to assess each student’s presence, and, also, it’s good to see them.
I spend the rest of the morning in the office with our office assistant, the telephone, and email. This adds one face-to-face relationship and a dozen others with parents, strangers, graduate students, and colleagues at the graduate school at which I also teach. Three want updates on my progress reading thesis drafts. I get to email another to tell him his thesis is finally accepted, after four drafts. I’m invited to conference in Turkey in October. I imagine myself in Istanbul; I like it.
I meet a friend for lunch, director of an educational institute, to talk about a long-term research project that we’re planning. We run through where we’ve been, and look ahead to the politics of implementing the project. This talk is nitty-gritty and not as much fun as giving our ideas free rein. I run into four other friends and acquaintances; I live in a small town.
I drive to the theater where our students are rehearsing “The Tempest.” I sit with our director and watch the scene in which Caliban emerges from his cave, threatening and cursing Prospero, and leering after Miranda. Prospero instructs Ariel. The boy playing Prospero has enlisted in the army, a first in my years of teaching. The other students love and support him, but also question his decision. As Prospero, his care for his daughter and his power over Ariel and Caliban seem extra weighty, knowing that in a few months he’ll report for duty. Caliban is waiting for news of college acceptance. Ariel is heading to Germany for an internship in a few weeks, and plays her part like a teacher. Miranda is brilliant and sophisticated and charming; she is not typecast, and needs to act younger and more foolish. This is my favorite of all plays. My mother’s middle name was Miranda, and my daughter’s middle name is Ariel. I give notes and have to go.
I go home for a late second lunch with my son, who is home from college for midterm break. He’s barely awake, and we talk about articles he’s writing for campus publications. Then back to school for a faculty meeting with five teachers, discussing three students who face real challenges in life or school. One will be put on probation and be required to attend counseling to remain in school for the rest of the year. One has passed a drug test and seems on the straight and narrow. One is so thin-skinned that the wrong joke sends him into a rage, a rage that he shows to no one at school but vents at home. And then we hear from his parents. We organize internships, discuss our computer policy (kids spending too much free time on YouTube), and look at the schedule for the weeks ahead.
I drive to the local bike shop for the first group ride of the season, 20 miles in a paceline with 14 other riders, many of whom I know and chat with. Others I meet for the first time. It’s great to feel the cold wind and hear the crunch of gravel under our tires and the clicking of freewheels.
I change and return to school for a parents’ evening, two hours with a lengthy agenda, from the mundane—“please be sure your students are on time and that they bring their supplies with them to school each day”—to the difficult—updating parents on our revised drug and alcohol policy and discussing recent events with them. We’ve had one student withdraw rather than enter a process that would likely result in her expulsion from school for drug use; rumors are flying, and it’s difficult to put them to rest while respecting appropriate confidentiality and the family’s privacy.
After the meeting, three parents want to speak privately. One, the mother of the angry boy, schedules a meeting for later in the week. I go home, it’s 10 p.m., and my wife is asleep already. I inhale some chili—a bad idea; no wonder I’m awake now. I say goodnight to my son, and crawl into bed. Three hours later, here I am.
Removing overlaps, I spoke to about 80 different people today, more than usual, most of them face-to-face, a few on the phone. I knew most of them. About one-third were students, one-third were colleagues or parents, and one-third were friends. I sent about a dozen email messages, far fewer than usual. A good day, busier than most; no tragedies, no epiphanies. Few things finished or threads cut, just moving that rock up that hill, Sisyphus.
Monday, March 2, 2009
No Apologies for a Life of Doodling
I doodle all the time—in meetings, on the phone, during student presentations in class. I have doodled for as long as I’ve been conscious, through elementary school, high school, college and grad school. I have sets of things I like to draw—fountain pens, shoes, leafy vines—and hosts of “meaningless” geometric designs that appeal to me. I also draw things or persons in the room. I was always a good student, although I was taught to feel ashamed of my apparent inability to focus, to prevent myself from doodling.
A few years ago, I decided to flout the accepted wisdom that it is wrong to doodle. I started to invite my students to doodle (and, if they liked, to knit or otherwise occupy their hands during class). I decided that it had not adversely affected my own learning and so it was unlikely adversely to affect theirs.
Instituting a “go ahead and doodle” policy didn’t solve all problems in my classes—students can get carried away, drawing comics with which they distract others. I also need to be more keenly aware of when (during which activities in class) it's appropriate for students to doodle--when I am calling on them to remember what I am saying--and when it is better for them to be engaged in some other way. On the whole, however, I noticed that my classes were somewhat better behaved and I noticed that achievement didn’t slip.
I didn’t think of this as research, just as common sense, and I didn’t bother to measure the effects of the change in my classes. Maybe I should have. Recent research shows that doodling can assist memory recall (see below). Finally, we doodlers can stop castigating ourselves for an activity that, in fact, may help us to sort out our memories and handle masses of detailed information:
A few years ago, I decided to flout the accepted wisdom that it is wrong to doodle. I started to invite my students to doodle (and, if they liked, to knit or otherwise occupy their hands during class). I decided that it had not adversely affected my own learning and so it was unlikely adversely to affect theirs.
Instituting a “go ahead and doodle” policy didn’t solve all problems in my classes—students can get carried away, drawing comics with which they distract others. I also need to be more keenly aware of when (during which activities in class) it's appropriate for students to doodle--when I am calling on them to remember what I am saying--and when it is better for them to be engaged in some other way. On the whole, however, I noticed that my classes were somewhat better behaved and I noticed that achievement didn’t slip.
I didn’t think of this as research, just as common sense, and I didn’t bother to measure the effects of the change in my classes. Maybe I should have. Recent research shows that doodling can assist memory recall (see below). Finally, we doodlers can stop castigating ourselves for an activity that, in fact, may help us to sort out our memories and handle masses of detailed information:
Do Doodle: Doodling Can Help Memory Recall
ScienceDaily (Feb. 26, 2009) — Doodling while listening can help withSource: http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2009/02/090226210039.htm
remembering details, rather than implying that the mind is wandering as is the
common perception. According to a study published today in the journal Applied
Cognitive Psychology, subjects given a doodling task while listening to a dull
phone message had a 29% improved recall compared to their non-doodling
counterparts.
40 members of the research panel of the Medical Research Council's Cognition and Brain Sciences Unit in Cambridge were asked to listen to a two and a half minute tape giving several names of people and places, and were told to write down only the names of people going to a party. 20 of the participants were asked to shade in shapes on a piece of paper at the same time, but paying no attention to neatness. Participants were not asked to doodle naturally so that they would not become self-conscious. None of the participants were told it was a memory test.
After the tape had finished, all participants in the study were asked to recall the eight names of the party-goers which they were asked to write down, as well as eight additional place names which were included as incidental information. The doodlers recalled on average 7.5 names of people and places compared to only 5.8 by the non-doodlers.
"If someone is doing a boring task, like listening to a dull telephone conversation, they may start to daydream," said study researcher Professor Jackie Andrade, Ph.D., of the School of Psychology, University of Plymouth. "Daydreaming distracts them from the task, resulting in poorer performance. A simple task, like doodling, may be sufficient to stop daydreaming without affecting performance on the main task."
"In psychology, tests of memory or attention will often use a second task to
selectively block a particular mental process. If that process is important for
the main cognitive task then performance will be impaired. My research shows
that beneficial effects of secondary tasks, such as doodling, on concentration
may offset the effects of selective blockade," added Andrade. "This study
suggests that in everyday life doodling may be something we do because it helps
to keep us on track with a boring task, rather than being an unnecessary
distraction that we should try to resist doing."
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