matching tracksuits

“You can’t make me do that! You can’t make me do anything!”

I’ve heard this only a few times, from students who don’t particularly want to do something and resent the fact that I’m trying to “make” them.

“You’re right. I can’t make you do that,” I respond, and then explain what the student’s choices will influence my choices. Sometimes that motivates, sometimes it doesn’t.

Free will is a tricky thing in the middle schooler. It exists — rather, it flames — and then it disappears in a whimper — rather, in flash. Suddenly, I am making students do all sorts of things.

They shout out rude things because I made them: I unjustly accused them, you see.

They lash out at me because I made them: I asked them to do something they didn’t want to do, you see.

One has even threatened me because I made him: I told him to get up and leave his group of friends because of excessive talking.

If only I could figure out a way to make them do what I want them to do…

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A Nation at a Loss - New York Times

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At an in-service a couple of weeks ago, we received the little research tidbit that middle-school-aged students have a maximum attention span of some eleven minutes or so. The implication — made very explicit by the presenter — was that our lessons should have activity changes every fifteen minutes or so. You know, in order to keep students engaged and focused.

No mention was made about trying to expand and stretch students’ attention span and ability to stay on task for more than a relative nanosecond. And the notion that we could just say, “Look — today you’re just going to have to focus on this for more than a few minutes” was implicitly ruled out.

Which is good, because in high school, college, and beyond, all you really need is an ability to focus for about fifteen minutes in order to be successful.

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A client at the day treatment program I used to work at asked me an odd question one day.

“Is it true that people are going to have computer chips implanted in them at some time?” the boy asked, “Because my foster mom said that that was going to happen.”

“Ah,” I thought, “you just told me an awful lot about your foster mom.”

What I actually said was somewhat more toned down: “Nah, John, that’s not necessarily going to happen, and even if it does, it probably won’t mean what your foster mom seems to think it will mean.”

And immediately I thought that perhaps I’d said more than I should have, for it seems to be a theological/religious statement I made. I did qualify it: “not necessarily” and “probably.” Still, I’m sensitive about discussing anything having to do with religion with students.

When student teaching, I had an interesting exchange with a student about this. He was concerned that I had crossed some line by explaining the Christianization of Britain. I differentiated teaching and proselytizing. “If we’d been discussing the Turkish empire, I would have discussed Islam. If we’d been talking about the partition of India, I would have discussed Hinduism and Islam.”

After all, who am I to make judgments about whether or not the Beast is rising? Who am I to say that chip implants will not necessarily be a sign that the Beast?

I wonder if I didn’t overstep some boundary with that…

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I finished a two-day in-service last week. I have lots to write about now…

I am a sales rep. I have to get my students to buy into what I’m trying to teach them. Psychologists call this motivation; educational professionals from central office call it “activating strategies”. It all amounts to the same thing, though: convince your students that what you’re teaching them is

1. interesting,
2. useful, and
3. worth their time.

I don’t really recall any teachers doing that with me. I don’t remember having “activating strategies.” We walked into class and the teacher told us what we were going to be doing that day. I don’t recall the teacher worrying so much about whether she’s “hooking” us. I, for one, paid attention because I knew at some point, there would be some payoff. It was more difficult in some classes than in others, particularly in middle school (or junior high as it was called then), but I had some kind of strange faith that the teachers knew what they were doing, and that I would, eventually, use all this stuff.

Today, though, we talk about hooking students, competing for their attention, differentiating our instruction to keep it fresh and interesting. These are all good and worthy things, but when they start to be the focus of evaluation and training, it starts to be a little much. Add to it standardized testing and NCLB accountability, and you start to get the feeling that students’ failure to learn something is your fault, and your fault alone.

Even not doing homework is your fault. You see, when a student flatly says, “I’m not going to do it,” you have to “find another way to structure it so the student can learn it.” He refuses to do the homework; you have to trick him into learning the information another way.

You didn’t differentiate to account for different learning styles; you didn’t hook your students; you didn’t provide think-pair-share debriefing.

How about, “The students just didn’t do the work”? How about, “The students just didn’t care”? Well, you have to find a way to get them to do the work; you have to find a way to make them care.

I’m not sure a teacher’s job is to motivate, though. We spend all the time motivating and massaging and coaxing, and in the meantime, the Chinese and Polish students who sit in quiet, disciplined rows for hour after hour outperform our students in that Holy Grail of NCLB achievement, standardized testing.

The difference is, to some degree, cultural — a thought that is both soothing and depressing.

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In a study entitled “Vanishing Shakespeare,” the American Council of Trustees and Alumni found that 55 out of 70 “English departments at the U.S. News & World Report’s top 25 national universities and top liberal arts colleges, as well as the Big Ten schools and select public universities in New York and California” don’t require English majors to take a course in Shakespeare. Instead, we’re replacing the Bard with Madonna:

Increasingly, colleges and universities envision a major in “English” not as a body of important writers, genres, and works that all should know, but as a hodgepodge of courses reflecting diverse interests and approaches. See Appendix B.) After redesigning the English major at the University of Pennsylvania, for example, the department’s undergraduate hairman told The Daily Pennsylvanian student newspaper that “We might not agree on what we think English is, but we could all agree that our curriculum should reflect the makeup of our faculty.” Such a philosophy results in course offerings being driven not by the intellectual needs of students, but often by the varied interests and agendas of the faculty. As a consequence, it is possible for students to graduate with a degree in English without thoughtful or extended study of central works and figures who have shaped our literary and cultural heritage.

It’s difficult for me to imagine not studying Shakespeare as an English major. Shortly after I graduated, the professor who taught the Shakespeare course at my small liberal arts college introduced a second Shakespeare course in which students spent a whole semester studying a single play, with the ultimate aim of performing it. It was offered every other year, with a more traditional, 12-play Shakespeare course offered on off years. I wish I’d had the opportunity to take both.

But not to study his work at all? “A degree in English without Shakespeare is like an M.D. without a course in anatomy. It is tantamount to fraud.”

“Vanishing Shakespeare“

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I’d just finished a tough second period. Most classes with second period are tough — it’s just that kind of class. I was a little down about how much of a disaster that period could be when I decided to walk down to the cafeteria for a cookie.

The next-door social studies teacher emerged as I was walking by and told me about an unexpected exchange he’d had with a student.

“Latonya was talking in class,” he began, “And I told her to be quiet.”

Latonya (not her real name, of course) is a bright young lady in my related arts class. I’m teaching “Self-Advocacy,” which is basically social skills. And while Latonya is a very sweet young lady when she wants to be, she has a reputation for being tough on teachers.

In fact, the first time I met her was when I was calling her down for inappropriate behavior in the hallway and she began telling me how stupid my judgment was. When she first found out that I was teacher her third quarter related arts class, she said, “No way I’m staying in that class.” But by and by, talking very occasionally in the hallway or while outside before lunch, she came to change her opinion of me, and I of her. Before long, she was asking me when she’d be in my class, saying, “Mr. S, I can’t wait to be in your class.”

Now she’s in my class, and she’s one of the few who genuinely wants to learn how to make their school days more successful. She listens; she participates; she behaves wonderfully. But it’s not an academically challenging class, and I was curious how she was doing in other, “real” classes.

It seemed I was about to find out.

“You told her to be quiet, and…?”

“And she said, ‘Okay.’ And did it.”

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Mr. W. continued: “I was so surprised that I just looked at her and said, ‘Excuse me?’ ‘Mr. S. teaches us to just say “okay” whenever a teacher asks us to do something,’ she explained.”

It’s hard to explain the odd elation I felt. Part of it was for me — “Hey, I taught someone something!” It was important to feel positive after having had such a negative lesson. Most of the elation I felt was for Latonya. For someone whose auto-pilot sends her into fits of denial and aggression when confronted by a teacher like that, she accomplished something ineffably significant in just saying, “Okay.”

When I saw her in the hall during the next break, I told her how proud I was of her.

I wish I had a picture of her expression.

I walked back down the hallway, thinking, “These are the moments that keep me going in this job…”

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So many of my students think that they’re adults’ equals, that they can talk to adults just like they talk to their peers.

Did our teachers think the same of us?

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I’m starting my related arts class this quarter. I was scheduled to teach “Study Skills,” but after looking at my roster and talking to folks in guidance, I switched. I’m teaching “Self-Advocacy,” which I’m interpreting as socials skills (i.e., learn the skills to deal with problematic situations and come out positively).

And some of these students really need social skills.

Yesterday, while talking to the new students, I asked one of them her name. She mumbled something, and at the same moment, someone in the front of the class said her name as well. I really didn’t catch either one, so I asked her again.

“She already told you. Why do I gotta tell you again?” she responded, with — as the students would say — attitude.

If I were teaching anything other than social skills, I don’t know that I could have kept my cool as well as I did. I simply turned it into a teachable moment when I had a one-on-one moment with her.

But it’s that kind of response that just floors me. “What in the world are you hoping to accomplish by responding to an innocuous question like that with such disrespect?” I thought.

Another example today: I was handing out note cards. “What are these for?” one young man asked — a young man who has a reputation in the school as one who would talk back to a brick wall. I didn’t say anything immediately and he looked at the note card, looked at me, smacked his teeth, and asked again, “What are these for?!“

Again: “What in the world are you hoping to accomplish by responding that way?”

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What is it that’s so difficult about walking in a line? Is there some genetic abnormality that appeared about the same time as public education that makes it all but impossible to walk in a single-file line 100 feet to the media center?

I have to preteach each and every class before heading down the hall to the library or to the computer lab, or anywhere for that matter, and of my four classes, only one manages to do it consistently well. Another manages most of the time. The other two are just disasters.

Time for Natural Consequences.

What is the natural consequence of people walking down the hallway disruptively? Kids in the classrooms they pass lose learning time. The cost is time; the consequence, then, should be time. And that’s why our sixth period spent some portion of the twenty minutes of pre-lunch outside time practicing walking in a straight line. But I really didn’t want to belabor the point, and as always, I didn’t want to make it seem vindictive. Time for classroom management technique number two: provide choices, not threats.

“So, folks, we have a choice before us: either we’re going to walk down the hall in a manner befitting mature eighth graders and then we’ll go outside, or we’ll continue to try it until we do get it right.”

Of course they nailed it the first time, which is for them both good and bad. It’s good because they got to go outside immediately; it’s “bad” because they’ve once again shown that they’re capable of it and that there’s no reason for them to do otherwise.

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